Page 46 of Hopelessly Teavoted
Home was a person and not a place for him. He had to have her, to taste, to touch, and to fill completely.
Whatever might happen next.
Victoria pulled his mouth up to meet hers, and their lips crushed against each other, brutal and unyielding with desire. The kiss was more than claiming; it was branding. Her hips were rolling over him again now, grinding, and he thrust against her as they lined up, aching for each other through too many layers. He wanted to take her somewhere he’d have space and time to worship every inch of her. He wanted to screw it all and take her here and now, limitations of the front seat and all. The dual desires twisted and wound, clouding his ability to think of anything at all other than the gorgeous expanses of rosy, freckled skin he could imagine whenever he shut his eyes.
He didn’t have to weigh patience and immediacy much longer, though. Vickie was driving this thing, and she had plans more urgent than his agonizing indecision.
“Azrael, my jeans. Can you take them off?”
Well, that solved that issue. Heat rippled between them.
He smiled and pushed her back. Ran the tip of his right index finger across the seam of her pants and watched as she squirmed, color rising to her cheeks.
“Is this what you want?” Azrael wasn’t willing to waste years of practice. This could be nothing less than earth-shattering; he wanted—no, needed—for things to be so phenomenal between them every time that she would maybe understand one fraction of how he felt. He increased the pressure through her pants, feeling the way she bucked against his fingers and drew in a sharp intake of breath.
“Now,” Vickie commanded. “Do it now.” Her voice was yearning. Desperate. Like his soul.
With his left hand, he gripped between her shoulder blades and pulled her against him. He felt the heat of their mostsensitive parts and their secret hearts, almost uncovered and pulsing between them. It was like being consumed by flames, and he was eager to burn.
Azrael shook his head.
“Soon,” he said, slipping a finger into her waistband and unbuttoning her pants, pulling them open just a little.
Her underwear was lacy and a delicate pink one shade brighter than her shirt. He moved the hand that was currently unwrapping his deepest desires down between her thighs, pressing the pad of his thumb against the denim.
Vickie rolled her hips, and, fuck, he could finish just from rubbing up against her.
Azrael gritted his teeth. Hewouldmake this last. He would make iteverythingfor her, the way that she was every single damn thing for him.
“Tell me,” he said, his words a whisper against her collarbone. “Tell me what you need. Tell me what you want. Anything, Vickie.”
“Touch me until I almost can’t stand it anymore,” she said, breathy with desire. She was digging her hands into the seat behind him now and leveraging it to press herself against him so hard that it almost hurt.
Almostwas sometimes the most exquisite word in the En-glish language, and with Vickie it meant stars. It meant fire blooming between them and exploding into a constellation of desire. Devil damn him, she was hot. Under his left hand, her body felt fevered, even through her shirt.
“I want you unraveled. Undone. Falling apart so thoroughly that you can’t think, and that the next time you’re alone and touching yourself, you can’t help but moan my name, and think of this. Of us.” It was honest, and dark, and her answering moan intoxicated him. He was fearless now, burning brightly, as powerful as his twice-magicked name. “I want you to feel me, to finish so hard that I am the only person you need like this. So that you can see for a moment what it’s like to be me, wanting you every fucking moment of my life.”
He circled his thumb slowly along the soft inch of her exposed stomach, relishing the way she writhed and bit out his name. He ignored the heat of his ring, focusing on the more present pleasures of the woman on top of him.
“Azrael,” she whimpered. “Touch me everywhere.”
He ran a finger down the column of her throat, tracing her collarbone. Slow, languorous brushes, and his fingers were grazing her breast, skimming over the hardened nipple through her flimsy bra and shirt. He brought his other hand up to do the same so that he swiped each one, featherlight, with a thumb, and then pinched gently, relishing her moans. He was uncomfortably hard against the seam of his pants. He was uncomfortably hot under her. Goddess, he’d never pictured it like this, the steering wheel jamming against the back of her and his seat in the way of thrusting the way he wanted, and yet even the idea of it was still enough to turn his blood to honeyed wine, pumping through him, blazing and bold and epic. He was an inferno.
“Touch me,” she breathed into his ear, nipping at the lobe and making him groan. He wanted to be in her; he wanted to undress her; he wanted to listen and do absolutely nothing other than what she commanded. He was so swollen with all the wanting that it was hard to think. Was it possible to actually catch fire?
Vickie unleashed was his favorite Vickie. Her brightwildness was so different from his own simmering, cold loneliness. He growled, shoved a hand deeper into her jeans and yanked her underwear to the side with his hand, dipping his fingers into her as best he could against the stretch of denim. He pulled his hand back out, catching her gasp with his mouth and consuming it, the way he wanted to consume her.
“I want to taste you, Vickie,” he gasped against her, but she shook her head. Gravedirt had cleared all pretense between them, or perhaps it was the intensity of what they were doing, but their hearts and their wants were naked now.
“Make me feel so good that I can’t stand it,” she breathed. “Ruin me for my own hand, without you, next time.”
She pressed that hand against the window, leaving a steamy print where it was wet with condensation. The shading magic on the window was unnecessary now, but he left it, the filtered moonlight drifting in casting her in purples and grays that painted her pale skin and her bounty of freckles as little road maps to pleasure that he wanted to trace with his tongue. He couldn’t wait to lay her out on an actual bed and take his time worshiping every single fucking inch of her.
But he could follow directions. She had told him what she wanted, and he would give it to her.
He breathed against her neck, sliding his hands down to grip her hips, and then working his fingers over the denim again. He rubbed her center through her pants, and she lifted her body up and then down again, the agony of being so close to where he wanted to be and yet so far pushing against his boxers and his pants. He was throbbing, and his hand wasburning. He ignored it.
“Az. Please. Stop fucking around.”
