Page 26 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

“Wait.”

He lifts his head. “What is it?”

His mouth is plump and kissed and his eyes are dark and swirling. He’s more erotic than all the shades of gray, and I need to think for a minute. Rethink. Remember why I pulled away.

But when nothing comes immediately to mind, I kiss him again and let his hand resume its travels to the parts of me where no man has gone in too long.

I’m naked under his shirt, and my breasts are heavy under his palm, and when he shifts and pinches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, I moan. Not a God-that-feels-good-moan, but a take-me-to-bed-before-I-explode moan. Lusty. Passionate. The kind of sound that makes my own body hotter just for hearing it.

It turns Tomas into an animal. His mouth slides away from mouth to my jaw, my throat, my ear. But when he finds the spot where my shoulder curves into my neck, licks, then bites softly, I almost come, standing up, fully clothed. I curl my leg around his hip and hold him tight against me.

“Corrie …”

If his kiss was good, hearing the nickname he gave me is downright orgasmic. I can’t talk because his mouth is back on mine, and I’m too blissful to doubt or speak or do more than kiss and be kissed.

But once again, my mind flashes and I’m eighteen again, thinking I’m heading off to college in a couple months with the man of my dreams, but he was a boy then. One who left me. Alone. Desperate. Sad. Confused.

Bingo. That’s a reason to stop.

I push Tommy away again. “This was a bad idea. We can’t.”

It almost worked. If he hadn’t taken the opportunity to take my nipple into his mouth, I wouldn’t have thrown my head back and arched my spine so that he’s the only thing keeping me from free-falling onto the floor. I also wouldn’t let him spin me so I’m facing the mirror and can watch his hand slip down the front of the sweats I’m wearing as I writhe my ass against his cock, wanting more of him.

My body is writing checks my past can’t cash. God, this is wrong. Try telling that to the soaking wetness between my legs, though.

His mouth is on my throat once more, and I slip a hand between us to grip him through his shorts. He’s hard and long and familiar. Too familiar. Tooeverything.

“Tommy …” I’m panting. “We … have to … stop.” But I haven’t moved away, haven’t twisted to stop him from swiping his fingers over my clit. “Tommy.”

“Why?” He stops sucking on the side of my throat to ask and my pussy is already clenching, pressure building toward an orgasm that might shatter me.

And now there’s a finger inside me, so I take a second and try to organize my argument.

“Because.”Because … because …“Because you killed two men and I’m married.” Sham of a marriage that it is, I still stood on that altar with Alvin and traded vows. Does that count for anything? Should it?

I don’t have to move; he does it for me.

“Married?” he scoffs. “That’s your argument?”

“The only one I could think of while you were fingering me.” It’s crass and crude and not at all like me, but I’m not thinking with all my cylinders.

“So, I’m kissing you with my fingers inside you and you’re standing here thinking of reasons to stop. Is that it?”

I don’t flinch away even in the face of his anger. Whatever else he is, he’d never hurt a woman. I know that even though I know hardly anything else about him.

He sighs. “Go to bed, Corinne.”

Oh, hell no.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” I snap. I’m forceful and strong. Angrier than I’ve ever been. I could’ve picked any damned place in the world to get married, but it had to be at that hotel. And look where I am now. Look where it got me.

Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

His eyes flash, and he paces to the wall of windows. Probably trying to figure out how he’d cover up throwing my body out onto the streets below.

“Go to bed,” he repeats.

“Fuck you, Tommy.”

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