Page 63 of Glass Rose
“You smell fucking incredible,” I murmur against her neck, inhaling deeply the slight saltiness of her skin, the lingering trace of soap from her shower, and beneath it all, the unmistakable scent of her arousal.
Sweet and entirely mine.
She arches her back, her body seeking more contact as her thighs part to cradle my hips, and I growl low in my throat, teeth grazing the pulse point where her life beats strongest, savoring the way she shivers beneath me.
I want to bite into it. Taste it.
“Stop teasing.” She fights against my grip on her wrists.
I tighten my hold. She’s not in control here. “Patience, baby.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Not yet.” I release her wrists to get rid of my shirt, wanting to feel her skin against mine without barriers. “But I’m going to make you beg.”
“I can’t wait.”
I grip her neck, capturing her mouth with mine. Her lips part beneath mine, inviting me deeper, and I accept it with a groan.
I kiss my way lower to where her shirt has ridden up. “This needs to go.”
She raises her arms, helping me strip it away.
Her bra is plain cotton, functional, not fancy. Doesn’t matter. What’s underneath is what I want.
“Look at you.” I cup her breast through the thin fabric, her nipple hardening against my palm.
The weight of her fills my hand perfectly. I run my thumb across the peak, watching her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting on a silent gasp.
I unhook her bra, not waiting for her to shrug out of it, before I duck my head, brushing my lips against the swell of her breast. “I’m going to make you scream.”
Her laugh is breathless. “What about the others?”
“Don’t care.” I flick my tongue across her nipple.
”Gavin.”
I smile against her skin, rolling the tightened bud between my teeth.
The scent of her arousal grows stronger, filling the small space until it’s all I can smell, all I can think about. My cock strains painfully against my jeans, demanding release, demanding her. And I’m going to have her tonight.
I trail my hand down her stomach, fingers toying with the edge of her slip.
“Please.”
I’m about to comply when something shifts in the world outside our little bubble. A sound—distinctive, familiar, wrong for this time of night.
I tilt my head.
Footsteps. Not the quiet, efficient steps of Marcus or the light tread of Dr. Cho. These are heavier, with a slight drag on the left that creates an uneven cadence. John. And he’s moving directly toward our camper.
“What is it?” Sofia asks.
I press a finger to her lips, head cocked as I track John’s approach. “John. Coming this way.”
She blinks, then scrambles to put her shirt on as I reluctantly ease off her, grabbing my own shirt from where I tossed it. By the time three sharp knocks hit the camper door, I’ve worked it over my head and adjusted my jeans to hide the evidence of what we were doing.
“Gavin? Sofia?” John’s voice filters through the thin door, tense and strained. Not his usual gruff confidence.
