Page 77 of Restless Hawke
“What about you, Allegra? What areyoudoing?”
He raises a brow, waiting for my response, and it takes longer than it should for me to come up with one because staring into his eyes, pressed against the door, it’s hard for me to remember why I came back here with him in the first place—other than to feel his touch again, his warmth, his fiery passion all directed at me.
And I know just the way to stoke it further.
“I was thinking…” I trail my fingers down his chest, stopping at his six-pack. “It was time for payback for what you did to me in that restaurant booth.”
There are so many ways I could torture this man. So many tricks I could use to leave him breathless and begging the way I was that night…
But the grin he gives me before he presses his lips to mine and reaches down and grasps my thighs, lifting me easily to wrap them around his waist, tells me that he won’t go down without afight.
He carries me through his dark condo, down a hallway, and into what must be his bedroom.
His scent permeates the air.
Masculine.
Crisp.
Like warm ocean waves on a sunny day.
And despite the dark shadow that often seems to hover over him, that’s precisely what Coen is—bright and warm. If I didn’t know better, I would almost think I’m safe with this man, but we both know there’s too much history between us now, too much unsaid and too many lies told to ever really believe that.
It won’t stop either of us, though.
Not tonight.
He stalks over to the bed, each step causing his cock to grind in exactly the right spot. I push against him, tightening my thighs, needing the friction, wanting more, and he groans as he lays me down on the comforter and settles on top of me, aligning his strong, hard body over mine.
His lips find my jaw, then my neck as he slides the tiny straps of my dress down my shoulders and exposes my breasts. My nipples pucker, hard as a rock, both from the chilly air in his room and the desperate need for him to touch me, to do something other than get me worked up.
He growls a low approval at the sight of them, then dips his head and takes one in his mouth, lightly grazing his teeth along the turgid peak.
“Fuck!”
My hips buck up against his, grinding, seeking, my body ablaze already after his lingering touches during dinner. Those reassurances he gave me while his family questioned me like it was a job interview.
Each brush of his hand. Every squeeze of his palm. All the lingering glances and half-smiles all proved how protective he can be—even of someone who hasn’t given him any reason to be.
If anything, he should be protecting himself fromme.
From what I am capable of.
But tonight seems more like it will be about whatheis capable of now that he’s gotten me where he wants me.
Our first time together was so frantic. Filled with a burning hatred on his part and a desperate neednotto break on mine. Tainted by all the things left unsaid and the resentment he felt for me. Lust inextricably entwined with the desire towinsomething that would never be satisfying.
He never explored me.
Never got to know what I like.
What my body responds to.
But I’ve suddenly realized giving him that opportunity right now might be a bad idea, given his crystal-clear intent.
Pleasure bordering on pain.
Sensual torture.
