Page 21 of Cruel When He Smiles
I grip the waistband and tug, just enough to let the fabric snap against his hips, and catch a glimpse of it—black lace, delicate and soft, hugging his sharp hipbones, and sheer enough to see through.
“Who were you wearing this for?” I grit out.
His eyes flick to mine, pupils wide, chest rising fast. “No one,” he whispers.
I press harder, my voice deadly soft. “Did you put these on for someone here tonight? Thought maybe they’d get lucky enough to see what you’re hiding under those tight little jeans?”
“No.” He says it too quickly, like the word caught on his tongue and tumbled out before he could shape it into something more convincing.
But I don’t buy it.
“You wore lace. To a party. Under jeans that leave nothing to the imagination. And you walked in looking like a fucking wet dream on purpose—knowing I’d be watching.”
He swallows hard. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me, Nate,” I say and slide my hand deeper under the waistband, the lace dragging under my palm like a dirty little secret, before I squeeze his cock.
He gasps, hands flying forward to grab my forearm, but he doesn’t push me away. No, the little slut clutches tighter.
“You wore these to be wanted,” I growl, dragging my mouth to his ear. “You wore them hoping someone would notice. That someone would take you apart for it.”
He shakes his head, but he’s trembling. His breathing is ragged, and his nails are biting into my skin.
“Who else have you let see this?” I murmur.
“No one.”
“Bullshit.”
His breath stutters, and he shakes his head again. “Liam—”
“Did you let someone touch you?” I hiss and squeeze his cock harder. “Did someone else get to fuck you in these first?”
“No,” he says, his tone desperate. “No one touched me, I swear.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but I want to. And fuck, I’m this angry because I hate the idea of anyone else seeing him like this. Dressed up. Pretty. Dripping in sex andmine, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
“Tell me you wore them for me,” I demand, thumb grazing his hip.
He goes still, too still; like prey pretending it doesn’t want to be hunted. It’s sweet how he tries to keep standing like he has some dignity left.
He swallows again, then he whispers, “I wore them for you.”
I slam my mouth to his and kiss him so hard I taste blood. No more games, no more fucking questions. I’m simply claiming what’s already mine.
My hands fist in the waistband of those goddamn panties as I push him back against the wall, grinding against him until he moans into my mouth. That sound rips through me like it’s meant to destroy. I swallow it whole, drunk on it, on the feel of him arching under my touch, his mouth hot and desperate against mine.
Every part of him hums with tension, with want, and I can’t stop drinking it in. The lace, the defiance, the shake in his voice when he said it was for me—everything tightens around my throat like a noose I’ve wrapped there myself.
I kiss him as if I can carve my name into him through teeth and breath alone. His hips jerk, and he gasps again, his nails dig deeper into my forearm.
I’ve kissed people before. I’ve used my mouth the way I use my voice—calculated, cold, wielded like a knife when I want compliance. But this kiss is nothing like that. It’s not patient. It’s not practiced. It’s not part of the script I’ve written and rewritten a hundred times in my head.
It’s pure need.
Messy, furious need.
My tongue slides against his with no grace, no rhythm, and no finesse. His hands fumble against my shirt as if he’s trying to either tear it off or tear me off, and I don’t stop him. I want him lost. I want him as undone as I am.
