Page 25 of Dark Succession
Teague stroked a hand up her side, stopping at her ribs and running his thumb along the underside of her breast. “It kills me that every time I’ve seen you, you’re never wearing a bra.”
Normally, she did, but the memory of his strangled curse that first night when he found her without one was enough to drive her to leave that part of her wardrobe out when she knew she was going to see him. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He dragged the straps of her dress over her shoulders and down, baring her from the waist up. “Fuck,I’m not even a little bit sorry when this is all it takes to be able to see you.”
Heat built under her skin as he cupped her breasts, his big hands playing over them with surprising gentleness. She held her breath, trying to keep in the moan building in her chest. Teague touched her like she was breakable and utterly priceless. It was a far cry from the way he’d driven her out of her mind in the back of her SUV, and the contrast only made her hotter. Because this man had both sides in him—the feral beast and the poet.
How was she supposed to keep her emotional distance when she never knew which one would come to the fore?
He went to his knees and dragged her dress the rest of the way off, leaving her in only a pair of red panties. Teague’s harsh exhale was music to her ears. He helped her step out of the dress and then tossed it to the side, sitting back on his heels. He was tall enough that it put his line of sight directly with her panties, and he didn’t seem interested in moving.
Callie shifted, trying not to clench her thighs together. She’d never had a man look at her like that—it was foreplay all on its own. Her hands fell to the sides of her panties, ready to shove them down her legs to join her dress, but he stopped her. “Not yet.”
He waited for her to move her hands to use his grip on her hips to bring her a step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that night a lot.”
She didn’t have to ask what night he was talking about, because she’d been thinking about it, too. “Me too.”
His breath ghosted the skin directly below her belly button. “Have you touched yourself while thinking about me, angel?”
It was a question she never would have dreamed of answering under normal circumstances—except these were hardly normal. So she ran her fingers through his hair and nodded. “Yes.”
“Fuck, I love hearing that.” His eyes slid shut and he hummed in pleasure. “And while you were touching yourself, what were you fantasizing about?”
The apartment seemed to heat ten degrees while she fought against her instinctive response to beg off. If she told him what she’d fantasized about, would he do it to her? The desire for that was far stronger than any embarrassment she might have felt saying the forbidden words aloud. “You. Your mouth on me.” She hissed out a breath when he kissed the sensitive skin just below her belly button. “Your… hands.” His tongue dipped beneath the band. It wasn’t nearly close enough to where she wanted it, but her body still practically sizzled for him. “Your cock.”
“Mmm. And when you take my cock, how do you picture it?”
Oh God. She couldn’t believe he wanted details, but she found herself answering—anything to keep him kissing his way closer to the apex of her thighs. “Me on top, riding you. You, taking me from behind.” His thumbs moved, inching her panties down her hips. She gave a desperate laugh. “God, all different ways and places. The shower, your bed, the SUV again.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my cock inside you.”
“Yes.”
Her panties hit the floor. He looked up at her, his slow grin doing a number on her heart rate. “I’ve said it before,and I’ll say it again—you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at you.”
She had the wild urge to argue with him, but she kept her lips sealed to prevent it from escaping and ruining the moment. Teague thought she was beautiful, and who was she to tell him he was wrong? Instead, she ran her fingers through his hair, enjoying the feel of it—the feel ofhim. He’d promised that she’d get her turn to do some exploring of her own, and she fully intended to take him up on it. So she tugged on his hair. “My turn.”
For a second, she thought he may argue, but he pushed to his feet. She wasted no time in slipping her hands beneath the hem of his old, faded T-shirt. It was soft with countless washings and obviously well loved. She paused in the middle of pushing it up and read the text across his chest. “The Pogues?”
“They’re one of my favorite bands.”
She made a mental note to look them up when she had the chance. That was the least of her concerns right now, though. He lifted his arms so she could drag the shirt over his head and drop it on the ground next to them. Then she stepped back so she could see him.
Good lord. He was magnificent, his muscles drawing her attention across his chest and down his stomach to where a trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. She ran her hand up his stomach, silently delighting in the way his skin jumped at the contact, and stopped at the scar stretching diagonally across his left pectoral and over his shoulder. “What happened?”
Teague captured her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” Another time, they would. But even as she continued her path over his shoulder and down his arm, she knew she couldn’t ask without risking him pushingher. Turnabout was fair play, after all, so she couldn’t open that conversation unless she planned on being honest with him.
Yearning rose inside her, strong enough to steal her breath, a need to tellsomeonethe truth. Maybe it would lighten her burden to do so, to the point where she might actually get more than forty-five minutes of sleep at a time. If only she was sure she could trust Teague totally and completely, she could risk it.
But she couldn’t.
She wanted, him—desperately—but desire and trust weren’t even in the same stratosphere. So she pressed a kiss to the scar instead. That brought her to the medallion hanging around his neck. It was familiar—she had a similar one at home, though with a different saint. “Saint Jude.”
“Patron saint of lost and forgotten causes.”
She knew that. What she didn’t know what why he’d chosen that particular saint to wear so close to his heart. It said something about the man, something that seemed to indicate scars that ran deeper than the ones on his skin. She had the ridiculous urge to bundle him close and hold him until all that hurt him disappeared.
