Page 26 of Her Defiant Heart (Damaged Hearts 1)

I hesitate. Like I really have to think about it. “A little. Not that I don’t want it to happen,” I tell him in a rush when I see the wary look on his face, as if he’s going to potentially remove himself from the situation. His expression turns shuttered, his body language shifting into flight position. Like he might leap away from my bed and shoot straight out of my house, never to be seen again. “I want you. I just need to, I don’t know, slow down for a little bit?” I phrase the last bit like a question, as if I’m unsure.

“Ah. Well, I can do that.” He sounds like the perfect, understanding boyfriend. I bet he would be a perfect, understanding boyfriend, if he actually settled down for once.

As he stretches out beside me on the bed, his arm going around my shoulders to pull me in closer to him, I wonder again if Rhett Montgomery is too good to be true. If what he shows me is nothing but smoke and mirrors with a sprinkle of magic, and the minute shit gets tough, he’ll reveal his true self. And his true self will be a complete asshole.

I almost wish that would happen. I want to see the cracks in his surface, see him be real and ugly and awful.

Then I’d feel like we have more in common.

“I hope you’re not mad at me.” I sound contrite, and the slightest bit sad. I need him to believe I’m sincere.

Truly, my body is buzzing with desire. If he reached between my legs right now and gave me one firm stroke of his fingers, I’d probably explode like a shaken-up bottle of champagne. But considering no man has ever made me come before—yes, I know, I’ve been with some real selfish assholes—I have ser

ious doubts when it comes to his potential skills.

So far, what he’s shown me has been impressive. But I’m still not fully convinced.

“I could never be mad at you.” I can feel his lips move against my forehead as he speaks, and he presses a kiss there, chaste and sweet. I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotion that threatens to wash over me. He makes me feel good. He’s…kind. Yes, I think he’s putting on some sort of perfection front, but what if he’s not? What if he really is like this?

Then I’m screwed.

We lay together on my bed for at least fifteen minutes, our legs entwined, our hands occasionally wandering. We talk about nothing, but we’re thinking about everything. I know I am, and I can feel that he is too.

He’s probably afraid to make another move, and I can’t blame him, since I’m the one who asked to slow down so I can “catch my breath.”

That sounds so lame. I wonder if he believed me. All I can think about is when can I feel his hands on me again. My blood runs hot and I’m restless, my legs rubbing against his, my hands aching to reach out and touch him, really touch him.

Deciding I’m ready to make my first move, I press my face against his bare chest and breathe deep, inhaling his scent. His skin is so warm and smooth, and incredibly hot. His heart races; I press my palm where it beats, and I purse my lips, kissing him there.

An agonized groan sounds from deep in his chest as I continue to kiss him. His pecs, the center of his chest, his rib cage, his stomach. I kiss him everywhere, the smattering of hair tickling my lips, the salty taste of his skin making my mouth water. I lick around his belly button and he shivers. I curl my fingers around the denim waistband of his jeans, my knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath, and his hips twitch. Silently begging me to delve under the denim and touch him where he really wants me.

“You don’t have to—” he starts when I unbutton his jeans and I lift my head to meet his gaze, sending him a look. Is he for real? Is he actually going to say that? He swallows his words with a simple press of his lips, his gaze never leaving mine.

“I want to,” I say firmly, pulling the zipper down slowly to reveal black cotton boxer briefs, his erection straining against the fabric. I drift my index finger down the length of him, noting how his cock jumps beneath my touch.

My entire body goes tight as he lifts his hips, allowing me to pull his jeans off. I swiftly remove them so he’s lying in the center of my bed clad in only the black boxer briefs, and I shift away from him, fully taking him in.

He’s got a beautiful body. All lean muscle and sinew, he has the start of a six-pack, his legs thick and strong-looking, and I’m tempted to pounce on him.

But I don’t. Instead, I move slowly and deliberately. I drift my fingers along his thigh, then back up until I’m at his hips. I tease him with my fingertips, dipping them beneath his underwear, stroking there. He’s so hot and so big, and finally, my patience gets the best of me.

I tug his boxer briefs down until they’re around his thighs, and his cock springs free. I grab hold of him, wrap my fingers tight around the base as I stroke up. Down. Establishing a rhythm, I’m focused solely on his pleasure, on what he’s getting out of it versus what he can do for me.

His pleasured groans, the way he twitches and shifts, his eager hips lifting the faster I get, it’s all driving me on. But my mind wanders as it usually does when I’m having sex. I can’t help it. It’s like I get—bored or something.

A thought flickers in my mind, murky at first, until it grabs hold and doesn’t go away. Is it my own guilt that’s making me do this? I can give him an orgasm and…what? Does that absolve me from what I plan on doing to him in the future? I study his face, his flushed cheeks, his glazed eyes, and when our gazes suddenly meet, I shift down, brushing my lips across the very tip of him.

Another moan escapes him as I draw him deep into my mouth. The sounds he makes as I continue to lick and suck him electrifies me. Urges me to suck harder, tease the tip of him with my tongue, stroke the base of him with a firm grip of my fingers…

“Hell no,” he practically growls, sitting up so fast I startle away from him. “I don’t want to come that way.”

I stare silently at him, a gasp escaping me when he pushes me backward until I’m sprawled across the bed. He undresses me with ruthless efficiency, until I’m clad in a wispy pair of black-lace panties and nothing else. His hands and mouth move all over my body, his fingers sliding beneath my panties, and I part my legs, letting him test me.

“So damn wet,” he whispers right before he tugs my underwear down, and then his face is between my thighs, his tongue licking, searching, and eventually finding my clit. His skillful precision is intense, making me feel like I’m about to come out of my skin and I strain against him, my eyes tightly closed, my muscles clenched. He knows exactly where to touch me, but I want more.

“Higher,” I whisper and he does as I ask, shifting higher. “Faster,” I gasp, a cry leaving me when his tongue picks up speed.

And just like that, I come quickly, my orgasm slamming into me out of nowhere. My entire body shakes, a harsh cry escaping past my lips as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me, electrified jolts wracking my body. When I’m finally spent, my limbs are shaking so hard, it’s like I just ran a marathon in record time.

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