Page 98 of Beauty and the Daddy
Mouth on mouth, full throttle, no safety net. I shove off the wall and straight into his chest like I'm the last push notification he'll ever need, fingers in his hair, tasting heat and trouble.
He growls as I clutch his lapels.
For one heart-stopping second, he freezes. Then he growls, and my toes curl into the marble floor, before he takes over like he's been waiting for permission to devour me.
His hands slide to my lower back, pulling me closer, and his lips eat mine.
He grips my ass like he wants to measure what he owns. He squeezes hard, making me gasp, and I feel him smile against my mouth, the bastard.
"Thought you were leaving," he mumbles between kisses.
"Shut up." I bite his lower lip.
That does it, and he goes feral. His palms slide over my ass like it's his to do what he wants with, squeeze, and suddenly I'm airborne.
"Hold on," he rasps.
My legs instinctively lock around his hips. Clingy? Baby, I'm Velcro.
The wall's at my back again, but this time I'm eye-level with him, watching his pupils blow wide as he kisses me fierce. I'm so wet I could qualify as a natural disaster.
He starts walking while he keeps kissing me, my ankles locked at the small of his back. We're a public hazard going up the stairs—bang into the banister, bang into the wall, kiss between curses, my back hitting plaster with a crunching thud. I'm laughing into his mouth, pretending we're the demolition crew around here.
My hands are everywhere—his hair, his neck, his shoulders. I need to touch all of him or I might just die. His tongue strokesagainst mine, and I'm making sounds that'll put my dead mama to shame.
We hit my bedroom door and he kicks it open and close behind us like it insulted his lineage. The door bangs loud. Someone's going to hear. Someone's going to know exactly what we're doing.
I don't give a single solitary fuck.
A few more steps and I'm sprawled on the bed, breathless, hair wild, heart a drumline.
He knocks into a side table in his quest to jump into bed with me.
"Fuck," he mutters as he falls above to kiss me silly again.
"Yeah, that's what I want to do too, baby," I trash-talk for fun, and he laughs with hunger.
"Take off your clothes." He bites my lower lip.
"Which ones?" I tease, already reaching for the button of my jeans. "I've got… several."
"You like trouble, don't you sweetheart?" He smiles against my lips, reaching to grab my wrist.
I freeze and let his hands do the talking.
They're deft, decisive, slow enough to be mean, fast enough to feel heady.
My shirt goes first and he's so slow about it, I could scream. Button, brush of his knuckles,shiver. Then it's off my shoulders and he gives me the full top-to-toe checkout that leaves my thighs clenching for the kill.
He skims a finger under the strap of my bra, reaching behind my back. One-handed, the clasp pops—show-off—and the straps slide down my arms in slow motion.
I shiver from the hit of cold air; his gaze heats right up. He peels the cups away, and I'm bare on the bed in nothing but my jeans, button glinting, waistband riding low like an invitation.
"Let me see you," he murmurs.
His knuckles trace the path where lace used to lie—collarbone to the swell of my breasts—each touch a brand that makes my breath stutter. When his palms cup me, thumbs circling with maddening precision, I arch into him like I'm seeking salvation.
"Perfect," he growls against my skin. "Every inch of you. Mine."
