Page 70 of Fire and Silk
My hands are shaking as I reach for his shirt.
Each button comes undone slowly.
His chest rises and falls with the pace of a man restraining himself. My body shudders as I peel the shirt open, dragging my fingertips across bare skin. My lips follow. Kissing. Sucking. Breathing him in.
He smells good. Like wood and heat and something male enough to make my thighs clench. My mouth opens over his collarbone, dragging down to the center of his chest. I kiss his sternum, his ribs, the thick line of muscle that leads downward, and every time my lips touch him, his fingers curl tighter into the sheets.
I haven’t been with anyone in years.
I have forgotten how it feels to want like this. To ache. To need.
I spent so long wrapped up in Mico’s indifference, locked in a longing that never gives me anything back. I forget what it is to be touched, devoured, seen. And now this man—this arrogant, infuriating, perfect nightmare—is turning me inside out with just his presence.
I pull away from his body, chest heaving, mouth tingling from where I’ve just devoured him. His shirt lies discarded, and the rise and fall of his breath has quickened, muscles twitching beneath flushed skin as he watches me.
But I don’t crawl back into his arms.
I stand.
The room is quiet save for the sound of my own breathing and the faint creak of the floor under my bare feet. My pulse thunders. Every inch of my skin feels lit from within.
And I walk—slowly—toward the wall.
I can feel his eyes following me, can practically taste the shift as I reach out and pluck the lace blindfold from its velvet tray.
The blindfold slides easily between my fingers.
He sits there, half-reclined against the pillows, arms braced behind him, chest bare and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat. His pants still ride low on his hips, belt unbuckled. The zipper lies undone, just shy of exposing him fully. One shift and I can see everything.
His eyes follow me as I approach.
I don’t speak. My hand rises—slowly, deliberately—and extend the blindfold to him. He doesn’t move for a beat; head tilted like he is reading something in my silence.
Then—that smile.
That fucking cocky, wolfish curl of mouth. It could break me in half. Instead, it only makes something lower in my stomach pull tight.
He raises both hands, palms up in mock surrender. “You sure you know what you’re asking for?”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
I climb into his lap, straddling him. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t rush. He just lets me tie the lace over his eyes, knuckles brushing against his temple, fingers slipping into his hair as I tighten the knot behind his head.
His breathing deepens.
So does mine.
With the blindfold in place, he looks almost unreal. Head tipped slightly back, long dark hair falling in loose waves around his shoulders, mouth parted in stillness. His jaw is a thing of cruel geometry. Sharp cheekbones. Collarbones like carved stone—and I see now, just under his left side, a long, thin scar slashing diagonally toward his heart.
Something in me twists.
I lean forward, lips hovering over that line of raised skin.
I kiss it.
My tongue flicks against the edge before I move higher, tracing a path up his throat to the edge of his jaw. He sucks in a breath. His hands stay at his sides.
I shift back, dragging my hips over the ridge in his pants, feeling how hard he already is. He growls. I smile. And then—my hands go to his waistband.
