Page 22 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
Desperate to get my pulse under control, I exhale raggedly. Against my skin, Ryan makes a husky coo of support. He knows I’m struggling. If he keeps this up, I’ll crack wide open.
He presses kiss after kiss to my chest, shoulders, and neck. His hair tickles my cheek. He’s heavy and hot on top of me, but I like the way he feels. I like the way he smells, clean male and soft musk. I like the way he tastes, and the way he tastes me.
I like everything about him.
Mierde! What the hell is wrong with me?
“Open your eyes,” he commands.
I look at him. He stares back at me with piercing intensity, like nothing else exists in the world except us. Enunciating every syllable, he says, “You can trust me. You have my word.”
The promise hangs there between us, dangerous as a lit stick of dynamite.
I want him to take it back. Promises are even more dangerous than explosives.
“That’s not going to happen,” I say.
But I’ve forgotten something crucial about him. Challenges—the more difficult, the better—are exactly what make him tick.
“Maybe not tonight,” he says, then smiles. It carries a promise, too.
Before I can snarl and shove him off, he buries his face in my cleavage and nips one of my nipples with his teeth.
“Ow!” I slap him on the shoulder.
Chuckling, he strokes the stinging nipple with his tongue, looking up at me from under his lashes like he’s daring me to stop him. I consider it until he pinches my other nipple, making me gasp.
“You like that,” he whispers, intently watching my face. “What about this?”
He firmly pinches both nipples at the same time. A hot pulse of pleasure throbs between my legs. An involuntary moan breaks from my lips. It’s followed by the dark, satisfied sound of his laugh.
“Less teeth, more tongue and fingers,” he says. “Got it.”
“Ryan—”
“Hush.”
I glare at him. He’s too focused on my breasts to appreciate my withering look. When he abruptly rises to his knees and tears off his shirt, I’m distracted, too.
His body is sculpture. Muscles ripple and flex with every movement. I think the temperature in the room has just shot up twenty degrees.
He lowers himself back into the cradle of my spread thighs. My hands automatically start to paw him, filthy addict that I am. He’s so hard. Everywhere. Except his skin, which is inexplicably petal soft. It’s like being embraced by a steel column covered in velvet.
He gets between my legs with some kind of Ninja move that’s so fast, it’s a blur. Then he shifts to slow-mo again. He nuzzles me right there, breathing me in with an audible sigh.
“These hardly even count as underwear.” He tugs at my tiny thong. It’s basically a two-inch piece of fabric held together by a few threads.
“No panty lines,” I breathe.
He chuckles. “God forbid.”
The next sound is my sharp inhalation as he slides his tongue under my panties and lazily licks my clit. “Oh!” I gasp, arching against the couch.
“Sweet,” he mutters to himself.
A yank, the rip of tearing fabric, and my panties are disposed of, tossed over his shoulder to land in a small, shredded pile on the floor.
He slings my knees over his shoulders, grips my ass in both hands, and sucks my clit into the wet heat of his mouth. I sink my fingers into his hair and moan. Loudly. As I rock against his face, I try to maintain consciousness.
