Page 44 of Enticing the Enforcer
Because he doesn’t hesitate. Not even a beat.
The door shuts behind him, and before I can think, before I can breathe, his mouth is on mine.
It’s hard, almost desperate, like he’s been holding back since the second he scrawled that stupid note and taped it to his locker. Jesus, he’s good at this. I feel the kiss everywhere. In my blood. Rushing through my veins. Deep in my lower belly. His hands are on me instantly, bracketing my face, thumbs grazing my jaw, claiming the right to touch me. He tilts my head back and kisses me like there was never a question of whether I’d let him in.
Or maybe, if he waited for permission, I’d say no, so he’s taking the risk.
My fingers fist in his shirt before I even realize I’ve moved, tugging him closer, grounding myself in the sheer size of him. Six-foot-five of hockey enforcer muscle caging me in, chest solid against mine, heat radiating off him like he’s been carrying this burn around for weeks.
Whatever this is–it’s fire, it’s gasoline, blazing hot and out of control.
I can’t get enough.
The taste of him is heat and mint, sharp and addictive, his lips dragging across mine with a hunger that pulls me under before I can think about resurfacing. He kisses like he plays–fast, dangerous, like every second is sudden death overtime. No hesitation. No breaks. Just full tilt until the buzzer.
My back hits the wall with a soft thud, and I don’t care. I don’t care that my hair’s a mess, that I’m in leggings and a t-shirt, that I swore to myself I’d be careful with him. I don’t care that I can already hear Madison’s warnings screaming in my head. None of it matters.
What matters is the way his breath shudders when I kiss him back, the sound that escapes him when my lips part and histongue slides against mine, deep and claiming. He makes a low, rough noise in his chest, one that vibrates straight through me, leaving my knees weak.
I’m lost. Completely, stupidly lost. And the worst part is that I don’t want to be found.
When we finally pull apart, finally take a breath, he drops his forehead to mine and says, “Holy fuck, Angel, I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”
It’s not just his words that spin me. It’s the thick line of his erection straining down his leg as he presses into me, the heat of his body soaking into mine. He makes no effort to hide it, confident and at ease with his body and his wants. Hard muscle flexes under my palms, solid and unyielding, and all I can think is how badly I want to peel that shirt away. To see his skin, to taste every inch, to memorize him the way I’ve memorized lyrics.
“Where’s everyone else?” I manage, though my voice is wrecked, shaky from the kiss. His big hands are still clamped to my waist, fingers digging like he’s scared I might vanish.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” he states, his tone as firm as the steel-gray of his eyes. They flash with a glimmer of something feral.
That’s all it takes. A heartbeat later, I’m climbing him like he’s the only safe place in the world, my legs wrapping around his waist. He catches me without hesitation, like it’s second nature, his mouth crashing back to mine.
The kiss turns wild, messy, his tongue stroking against mine with a hunger that leaves me trembling. He’s everywhere–his hands gripping my thighs, his chest pressed tight to mine, his breath ragged in my ear when he tears away just long enough to whisper, “You drive me fucking insane.”
I bite his jaw, desperate for more. He jerks me higher, grinding against me in a rhythm that makes my head fall back. Asound tears from my throat, unfiltered, and his answering groan vibrates straight through my body.
We’re on the edge of something here, something that could ruin both of us if we let it go too far. And I don’t care. Not when he kisses me like I’m oxygen. Not when his body feels like the only thing tethering me to the ground. I fist the back of his shaggy blond hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan, and the sound goes straight between my legs. Every grind of his hips drags heat through me, every press of his body stoking the ache.
I swore I’d be more careful the next time: with my heart and body. With my soul.
But those thoughts are lost when my shirt rides up, his hands spreading across my bare waist, hot and callused, moving like he’s memorizing me. I arch into him, desperate, my chest pressed to his, nipples hard against cotton. His eyes burn down into mine, like he’s asking for permission and taking it all in the same second.
“Jefferson…” My voice is breathless, a warning, a prayer.
“I know,” he says, forehead pressed to mine, hips rolling once more before he stills. His restraint is a thin thread, trembling between us. “I know, but I can’t stop touching you.”
Neither can I.
His hands trace slowly over my sides, the tips of his fingers drawing tiny circles that leave sparks in their wake.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, voice raw. “Can I make you fall apart again?”
The ask is hotter than anything that’s ever happened to me. The way he hands control back over to me, like he knows how much I need it.
I nod, and he eases me across the room until my backside hits the desk. His hands are gentle but insistent, sliding beneath the waistband of my leggings. He doesn’t rush; he takes his time exposing one leg and then the other. His mouth hovers near myear, whispering encouragement, teasing little moans, and each one twists something deep inside me.
He lifts me up on the desk, wedging himself between my knees. “Let’s see how wet you are for me.”
When he bends before me, I can feel his presence is completely different from before. He’s no longer feral, he’s grounded, patient, intent. My panties come off, a slow drag that feels excruciating. His hands split me apart, pushing my thighs and exposing myself to him. The way he looks at me, my skin crackles and flares, it’s like a man seeing the universe for the first time.
