Page 182 of Ruin My Life
And I believe him.
Because he’s the only person I’d ever let find me.
His hand scoops the back of my neck, fingers threading into my damp hair before he pulls me into a kiss.
It’s urgent—hungry. A different kind of claiming.
This one is laced with certainty, fueled by a desire so hot it could spark a fire in the middle of a torrential downpour.
His tongue swipes over my lips and I open for him, tasting the warm remnants of the mulled wine we drank earlier—citrusy and spiced.
It’s nothing like the last time we kissed. Then, it was all teeth and desperation, fire and recklessness.
Now, it’s reverent.Devouring.
Maybe it’s because we both know that this won’t be the last.
His lips trail softly down the line of my jaw until he reaches my neck. Each kiss he plants there is a vow, whispered against my skin.
He lingers between my collarbones, his mouth hovering just above the scar etched into my chest.
Even when he kisses it gently, I flinch.
But the way his hands stroke down my back is soothing. Like a lullaby played through the skin.
“Damon… you don’t have to—”
“Don’t have to what?” he murmurs against the scar, voice vibrating through me as his hands rise to cup my breasts.
His thumbs brush across my nipples until they stiffen. He rolls them between his fingers with the kind of reverence most men reserve for prayer.
“Don’t have to admire you? Worship you? Pay my respects to the body that’s kept you alive long enough for me to find you?”
“No, I meant—”
My words falter, dissolving into breathless moans as his tongue strokes down the length of my sternum, mouth latching onto one of my tender nipples.
My hips grind instinctively against him—against the thick length straining beneath his pants. I know I’m soaking through the thin fabric, leaving heat and want all over his lap.
But I need the friction. Icraveit.
His grip tightens on my hips, fingers digging in as he stills me.
“Words, Brie,” he grits out, his jaw locked tight. “Tell me what you meant before I’m too lost in your body to listen.”
I whimper, already needy and coming undone. But I know he won’t give me what I want until I say it.
Until Iownit.
“I meant…” I swallow, my cheeks burning. “You don’t have to be…gentle.”
I don’t want him to think I need cradling. I don’t want him to tiptoe around me like I’m fragile or breakable.
Ilikehis ferocity—his fire.
I want to be overwhelmed.
I want to beruinedby him.
