Page 23 of Ride Me Reckless
I should've said something—anything.
Instead, I grabbed his shirt.
"You always were trouble," I whispered, but it came out breathy.
His lips curved, slow, and dangerous. "And you always liked that about me."
Then his mouth was on mine.
No warning, no hesitation—just teeth and tongue and too many years between us. I kissed him like I hated him. Like I missed him. Like the only way to breathe was through him.
His hands slid up under my shirt, dragging the fabric over my head and tossing it aside without a second glance. I gasped when the air hit my skin, but it was nothing compared to the feel of his palms—rough and reverent—tracing over my ribs and back, thumbs brushing the underside of my bra.
I tugged at his belt. "Off. Now."
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it—just heat. "Bossy."
"You love it," I shot back.
He didn't deny it.
In seconds, we were a mess of limbs and denim, our boots kicked across the floor, a trail of clothes leading to the small bench seat where he sat and pulled me onto his lap like it was muscle memory. Like my body still belonged there.
I straddled him, my thighs braced on either side of his, every nerve in my body thrumming like a live wire.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice ragged.
"I won't."
He stilled. Searched my face.
I didn't blink. Didn't back down.
"I don't want gentle," I said. "I want you. Just like this."
His eyes darkened, jaw clenched. "Careful, Reckless," he murmured. "You say that, I might not let you go this time."
"Maybe I don't want you to."
Then I kissed him again—hard—and there was no more talking.
Only fire.
I ground down onto him, slow at first—testing the limits of this moment, testing the way his breath hitched when I rocked my hips just right. His hands were everywhere—guiding, gripping, reverent, and rough all at once.
He watched me like I was a miracle.
Like I hadn't shattered his heart once and driven it cross-country with a race trailer behind me.
The bench creaked beneath us, the tight space forcing our bodies close, locked together. I braced one hand on the wall behind him, the other tangled in his hair as I moved—each thrust a strike of lightning across my nerves.
But it wasn't just the friction.
It was the memory.
Of backseats and backroads. Of motel rooms with peeling wallpaper and his mouth on my collarbone. The way he used to whisper my name when he thought I was asleep.
He grunted, low and deep. "Jesus, Tess…"
