Page 51 of A Game of Ruck
A raw, masculinegrowlof possession and need.
His hand goes to his shorts, and I watch—holy hell—as he cups himself through the fabric, squeezing the thick length of his cock with a rough exhale.
“You’re perfect,” he says.“Fuck, Annabeth, you have no idea what you do to me.”
I do now.The proof is right there—hard and straining and clearly meant for me.
I’ve never felt more powerful.More wanted.Moreme.
I step toward him, emboldened by the heat in his eyes.
“Well,” I whisper, my voice sultry and unsure in a way that just makes him growl again, “maybe you should show me.”
His eyes flare with heat, and for a second, he just watches me.Like he’s savoring the moment, committing it to memory.
“Get on the bed, Angel.”
My breath stutters, but I obey.I take slow steps backward, letting my hips sway a little, teasing him because something about the way he looks at me makes me bold.
When the backs of my knees bump the mattress, I sit.But it’s not casual.I’m hyper-aware of my body.
Ofmy curves, my softness, the way my breasts rise and fall with each breath.
He stalks closer, kicking off his shoes without taking his eyes off me.
The heat in his gaze pins me in place, makes me feel naked even with the scrap of lingerie still clinging to my skin.
“Touch your tits,” he growls, peeling off his shirt, and I move without thinking, palms cupping the weight of my breasts, fingers teasing the aching peaks.
“Fuck.Yes.Tell me how they feel.”
“Heavy,” I breathe the word, my voice trembling with need.“My nipples ache.They’re sosensitive.”
I moan as I brush my thumbs across them, arching a little as pleasure shoots through me.
Luca groans low in his throat like it physically hurts him to watch.
I scoot back, settling against the padded headboard, my legs spread slightly, welcoming, inviting—shameless.
Because right now?I feel worshipped.
And I want to be.
His shirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and I swear my mouth goes dry.
Every inch of him is carved muscle and golden skin, ink winding across his chest and arms like a map of sin.
There’s a scar near his left shoulder, another on his ribs, but they only make him look more dangerous.
More real.
And moremine.
He watches me like a man who’s starving.
His eyes flick between my breasts, still cupped in my hands, and the heat between my thighs.
Like he can see or maybe even smell how wet I am already.
