Page 115 of Red Zone
“What’s this, Princess? Nothing underneath?” I lower my head to kiss her bare collarbone, and she lets out a sound that makes my pulse spike. I make my way down to her breasts, her nipples waiting for me to pay them equal attention. “That’s okay, I’ve never been patient when opening presents anyway.”
I take my time sucking one into my mouth while rubbing the other between my thumb and forefinger, getting her so worked up that she begins writhing beneath me.
She tastes like vanilla and salt, and the way she moves under my mouth—her back arching, her fingers threading into my hair—nearly undoes me.
I press her back against the sheets, dragging my hand slowly up her side, learning every inch of her like I’ve got all the time in the world.
Because this isn’t just about me wanting her.
I need her.
Her breath hitches when I lean down and kiss the curve of her shoulder, then lower, kissing the side of her neck as my hands skim over the top of her breasts.
She’s shaking now, just a little, but she doesn’t stop me—she lifts her hips instead, making it easier for me to slide her shorts down her legs.
I pause for half a second to look at her, laid out beneath me in nothing but her black lace thong, and something in my chest comes alive at the sight.
Mine.
No one has ever undone me like this.
I let my eyes drag over her—every inch of her skin, her chest rising in uneven breaths, the faintest tremor in her legs where they shift under me.
Her thong clings to her hips, delicate and perfect, and for a second I just…stay there.
Because this isn’t just sexual tension anymore. It’s more than that.
It’s her.
I already know the mental image of her, laying before me like this, is something I’ll never be able to forget.
My hands skim up the outside of her thighs, fingers brushing over smooth, warm skin, feeling the heat radiating off her as she lets out this little broken sound that shoots straight through me.
When I lean down again and press my mouth to her stomach—slow, deliberate—her back arches, her fingers gripping the sheets like she doesn’t know what else to hold on to.
“Carter,” she breathes, my name slipping from her lips in a quiet, pleading whisper.
I glance up at her, keeping my lips just above her waistband. “Tell me what you need.”
Her lashes lower, her voice barely there. “You. Please. Just you.”
That’s all it takes.
I kiss lower, over the soft curve of her hip, then to the lace between her thighs, feeling the shiver that runs through her as my breath hits her.
“Keep your eyes on me,” I murmur, hooking my fingers into the thong and dragging it down her legs.
The sight of her bare before me—vulnerable, perfect—makes my chest ache.
I push her thighs wider with my hands, spreading her open, and just take her in for a second.
“God, Lyla,” I groan low in my throat. “You’re beautiful.”
Her breath hitches, her cheeks flush as her hands clutch at the sheets.
Then I lower my head and kiss the inside of her knee, then higher, letting my tongue trace a slow line over the sensitive skin there until she gasps.
When my mouth finally presses to her center, she cries out softly, her hips jerking in surprise.
