Page 7 of Made for You
My breath caught, surprise widening my eyes. Both options had their merits, but this wasn’t about love or romance. What was happening between us was pure, primal need—something I never let myself indulge in.
His eyes flicked down to my mouth and back up again, his pupils taking over his irises. His jaw was tense, giving me theimpression he was holding himself together by a fraying thread and letting me decide how it was going to snap.
“I want you to fuck me,” I told him, my voice rough and low. “No holding back.”
“Good girl,” he said smoothly, and I felt every bit of that praise deep in my bones—and other places, too.
The restraint in his expression suddenly shattered, replaced by pure, focused heat. In one swift motion, he yanked my dress off over my head and tossed it backward over his shoulder.
His gaze dragged over me, his breath catching audibly in appreciation. “Goddamn,” he muttered, one hand flexing at his side like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for me. “You’re unreal, Siena. Every single one of my fantasies made flesh and bone.”
A flush spread across my chest, heat blooming at the base of my throat. I used to hate my curves. Spent too many years wishing I had the delicate, wispy frames of the women my brothers brought home—women whose hips didn’t sway when they walked, whose butts didn’t jiggle in their bathing suits, or whose breasts didn’t ruin the line of their outfits. But in the last few years, I’d made peace with my body. Maybe even started to like it. It was my mother’s figure, after all—a legacy I wore with more pride than I ever expected.
So instead of covering myself, I leaned back on my elbows and let him look. Let him drink his fill.
His mouth kicked up in that wicked, crooked smile I enjoyed seeing focused on me. “Mmm, that’s real nice.” He scrubbed his large hand back and forth over his stubbled jaw for a few long seconds as his eyes roved over my body.
“Now lie back, sweetheart. I want to see every delectable inch of you spread out for me.”
He reached into the front pocket of his Levi’s, fished out his wallet, and slid a condom free. Without breaking eye contact, he tossed it onto the bed up near the pillows.
I swallowed deeply and scooted to the center of the bed, my skin prickling with anticipation as I lowered myself down.
As soon as my back hit the covers beneath me, Gage stripped in a blur—his shirt went flying, his boots thudded to the floor, his jeans and boxers were yanked down and kicked away.
I barely had time to admire the broad planes of his chest or the trail of dark hair leading down to his thick length before he crawled onto the bed and braced himself above me, his eyes blazing.
His gaze swept over my face once again, pausing on my lips, then dropping down to admire the black mesh and lace that matched the panties I’d had on. Then his lips were on me again—hot, hungry, and possessive. His tongue swept into my mouth like he owned it. Like I was his to claim however he wanted. His right hand slid up to cup my breast through the fabric, abrading my skin, his thumb circling the stiff peak until I pulled my mouth away with an audible gasp.
“This is real pretty,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher than before.
This lingerie wasn’t just pretty. It was gorgeous. My favorite ever. “I’ve got four more sets exactly like it.”
He pinched my nipple through the lace, just hard enough to make me flinch at the expected pain, but instead, I only felt pleasure. I let out a surprised-sounding moan and arched into him.
His grin turned sinful, his eyes sparking with wicked heat. “You like that?”
At my nod, he yanked the cups down with a rough tug, the fragile lace shredding.
I should’ve cared. It was French. Custom-made and ridiculously expensive. But the way this man was looking at me—like I was a present he’d been waiting years to unwrap—made it worth every torn stitch.
“Oops,” he said, not sounding even remotely sorry for having just ruined a five-hundred-dollar piece of lingerie. “Guess I owe you a new one.”
Before I could tell him he’d need to fly to Paris to get it, he ducked his head and sucked one of my nipples into his mouth while his fingers twisted the other. The sting was sharp—but God, the heat that followed …
He switched sides, licking, biting, soothing, and tormenting. I squirmed under him, panting and digging my nails into his shoulders as warring sensations spiraled through me in dizzying, continuous waves.
“I love how responsive you are,” he murmured, his breath hot against my breast. “Think I could make you come just from my mouth on your tits?”
Honestly? No one ever had before—not even close. But right now? The way I was spiraling? It felt possible. I wassoclose.
“Gage,” I panted, my hips lifting in helpless invitation. “Please,” I whimpered. “Fuck me already. I need you.”
He chuckled and shook his head with an expression that looked like fondness. “Darlin’, if you think I’d fuck you without tasting you one more time, you’ve got another think coming.” He kissed a wet trail down my torso, then lower. “Gotta make sure you’re as sweet as I remember.”
A bubble of laughter burst out of me. “You just did that. I doubt you forgot already.”
He glanced up, smirking. “I’m like a goldfish. No short-term memory to speak of. Lemme just remind myself real quick.”
