Page 60 of Scarlet Mark
I shivered at the thought, his nearness suddenly morphing into a new possibility. Not one tied to fear and emptiness, but to heat and potential. A life I wanted but never had an opportunity to consider. An ardor for the future.
My blood warmed at the prospect, my heart skipping a beat.
And his dilating pupils said he sensed it.
The change between us.
The need.
The intensity.
I palmed the side of his face, tracing his lips with my thumb. So soft. Perfect. Alluring. I wanted to taste him. Truly. Not a tease. Not a taunting moment. But a real, thorough, sensual kiss. Because I wanted him.
“Killian…” It was a request and a plea, my eyes seeking his, my body curving into his for an entirely new purpose. I craved comfort in a form I’d never experienced. Hot. Passionate. Solace.
His grip in my hair loosened, his hand sliding to the back of my neck. “Come here, kitten.” He rolled to his back, guiding me with him. My legs straddled his hips as though they belonged there. “Take what you need.”
How he knew, I couldn’t say. I didn’t care, too lost in his words—his permission—to think beyond the moment. My lips took his with a fervor I unleashed with my tongue against his. And he accepted every stroke, every nip, every dominate sweep of his mouth. He allowed me to lead, giving me a power I never dreamed to be possible.
His strength coiled beneath mine, reminding me of a predator waiting to pounce, but his touch remained tender. My dress tangled around our legs, forcing me to adjust and pull the fabric up to my hips to resettle against him.
And ohhh, was that a mistake in the best way.
Because it left me completely bare against his dress pants.
No panties.
Just the thin wool of his trousers against my bare, wet pussy. I writhed against him, emotions mingling with a dark yearning inside me, begging to be unleashed. But I needed more than just a kiss and light petting.
The teasing all week, tonight, everything, had lit a fire inside of me that only he could extinguish. And that required the real Killian, the confident one who treated me as a fighter, a woman, not a fragile doll.
I cupped his face between my palms, lifting my lips from his. “Give me more. I’m done with the games. You need to follow through.”
“Never been a game, sweetheart,” he murmured, his grip on my neck tightening. “Seduction is an art.” He flipped me to my back, settling between my thighs and rubbing his hard arousal against mine.
I moaned, arching into him, only to be pushed back down by his hand on my hip. His opposite palm moved to my throat, squeezing just enough to demonstrate his newfound control.
“Is this what you want, Amara?” A hint of darkness lurked in his tone, an ominous flare that had me swallowing, my mouth going dry.
“Yes,” I breathed, knowing it to be true.
He squeezed more, cutting off my air supply. “Are you sure?”
My thighs clenched around his, my body reacting in the most fucked up of ways to his perceived violence. Because I trusted him not to truly hurt me. He could have done so many times before and didn’t. Everything he did heightened the pleasure, intensifying the experience and leaving me panting for more.
So I nodded, unable to speak.
And gasped as he released me. His mouth sealed over mine, inhaling me, as if the exhale from my lips belonged to him and he wanted to savor it.
Then he kissed me.
Truly.
Harshly.
Beautifully.
His tongue reclaimed its throne, stealing the dominance right out from under me while expertly teaching me how to obey him again. Each stroke had me bowing in supplication, my body quivering with unrestrained sensuality.
