Page 100 of Playing Hard to Hate
And I wanted more.
I tilted my head back, finding his gaze in the dim light. His gray eyes were darker now, his jaw tight, and his lips parted as he took me in.
“Tate…” His voice was strained, his grip on me firm, but I could feel his restraint.
I swallowed, nervous but sure. “I don’t want to be scared anymore. I don’t want to think about the robbery, the tabloids…I just…I want to feel something good. I need you, Griffin.” There. I had admitted it. I needed him in ways I couldn’t describe.
His fingers traced slow, soothing circles on my waist. “Are you sure?”
I nodded, heart pounding. He gripped the bottom of my chin, his touch featherlight as he forced me to look into the darkness of his depths, at the desire that consumed him. “I need you to tell me. I need to hear you say it.” His throat bobbed, his restraint hanging by a thread.
“I’m sure.”
“This is your first time, baby. I need you to be absolutely certain. No regrets.” The way he said baby made my heart skip a beat, the softness that crept into his tone making every single wall that surrounded my heart crumble to the ground.
I reached for his jaw, touching, feeling the stubble of hair from not shaving the last few days. “I could never regret you.” The words were honest, sincere, and exactly what he needed to hear.
His restraint shattered in an instant. One second, he was holding back, barely tethered. The next, he was hovering over me, his arms caging me in, muscles tense with need. His nose brushed mine. Our breaths mingled in the charged space between us.
His thick, powerful thighs framed mine, trapping me beneath him. But fear never crossed my mind.Not with him.Not when his body was the safest place I had ever known.
Then his lips found mine, soft at first, coaxing, savoring. But it wasn’t enough. A low groan rumbled from his chest as his mouth took control, his tongue sweeping in, claiming me in a way that made my pulse thunder and my world tilt.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” The words whispered between us were filled with longing and desperation.
“Me too,” I admitted, watching as his gray eyes darkened before he claimed my lips again. His hand drifted to the hem of the boxers resting on my hips, fingers teasing the fabric as he slowly started to tug them down. I arched into his touch, desperate to be closer, my body already attuned to his.
The material was soft as it slid over my skin, his movements unhurried, savoring every inch he revealed. He leaned back, no longer caging me in, his gaze dropping to watch what he was doing.
With a slow tug, he peeled the covers back, exposing my legs to the cool air. A shiver rolled through me, and I didn’t know if it was from the chill or the heat of his touch as his fingers grazed the inside of my thigh. A soft moan slipped from my lips as I reached for his face, needing him, needing this.
His hands trailed lower, pushing the fabric past my thighs, down my calves, until he reached my feet. Then, with a tenderness that stole my breath, he pressed a kiss to the arch of my foot.
And now I understood all the books.
“Fin,” I whispered, his name spilling from me in a low, desperate moan. I should have been embarrassed at how easily he unraveled me—but I wasn’t. Not when he started moving back up, his lips leaving a scorching path along my calves, my thighs.
Each kiss was a promise.
Each touch, a brand.
And I was his to claim.
“Have you ever touched yourself, baby?” His voice was low, thick with desire and need.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” My fingers cupped his face, nails digging into his neck.
“You better know how to use those claws, kitten.” He chuckled and then closed the gap between us again, lips brushing mine softly. Giving me exactly what I craved.
“I’ve read enough books. I think I know what I need to do,” I whispered. “Do you know what you need to do, Griffin?”
A sexy smirk twisted his lips, dark and full of promise, and I was certain that if the bed weren’t beneath me, my knees would have given out completely.
He was on his knees now, just out of reach, teasing me with the space between us. With one slow, fluid motion, he gripped the back of his shirt and tugged it over his head, revealing golden skin stretched over hard muscle, abs upon abs, every dip and ridge more defined than the last. A dark dusting of hair trails across his chest, down the center of his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers.
He was beautiful.
Not just in the way athletes are, all sharp angles and carved strength, but in a way that stole the breath from my lungs. He was power and grace, raw masculinity wrapped in the body of a man who looked like he was built to ruin me.
