Page 32 of Tempting Little Thief

Same white T-shirt.

Same electric pull pulsing through my every vein, summoning me closer.

“So fuckin’ tempting.” His heated gaze has zeroed in on the space between my thighs. “But what belongs to someone else ain’t somethin’ I’m into.” Lower lip sucked between his teeth, piercing and all, he shuffles backward toward the door. “Damn shame, though, Rich Girl.”

His tongue comes out, gliding over the ridiculously shiny hoop. Counterfeit silver, I’m sure, but that doesn’t lessen the sudden urge I have to taste it.

But he’s … leaving … because he thinks I’m Dom’s girl?

Is he serious?

“An honorable intruder. Never knew such a thing existed.” I try to keep the frustration laced with sass from my tone, but I’m not as successful as I would like.

Not that it matters, as he ignores me completely and just keepswalking.

He’s almost to the door now and my pulse jumps with each shuffle of his feet, but whydo I care? He’s no one. He doesn’t belong.

I don’t even know his fucking name!

Apparently, my conscious doesn’t give a shit, as my leg begins to bounce, and I drop my head back, eyes rolling to the ceiling, the decision already made.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I tear myself from the wall, headed right for him.

Gripping him by the tattered leather jacket, I slap my hand over the square on the wall, and the doors begin to close, but I don’t wait for the hard click.

I yank him forward, smashing my lips to his.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t touch or kiss back.

He holds still, eyes steady on me. Waiting.

No, not waiting. Wordlesslydemanding, and I have no idea why it kicks my desire into the greediest of need.

I give him what he wants in anticipation of the reward that will follow, sucking the breath from my lungs. “No,” I breathe. “I am nothis.”

My stranger needs no other words. I’m in his hands, ass to the wall in seconds.

He squeezes, tugs, and presses, growling against my lips as he tears his away, but only so he can whip my dress over my head. His mouth comes back, licking. Sucking. Biting.

He moves lower, his fingers curled over the edge of my bra, pulling it down, so his heated tongue can toy with the pebbled peaks there.

My eyes close, my head falling back on the soundproof wood behind me.

His hand slips between my thighs, seeking out the proof of my arousal, but he doesn’t give his approval. He growls. “This for me or him?”

An incredulous laugh escapes, rolling into a moan when he edges his finger into my underwear. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re soaked,throbbing. Needing to come.” He presses inside me, and my walls clench around him, desperate to hold him there. “Wet for me or him?”

“He hardly touched me.”

“Pathetic if he has to touch you at all to make you drip.” A second finger presses inside me, and I arch into him. “But he did touch you, and that’s against the rules, ma.”

My eyes begin to roll but clamp shut when he follows his words with a nip to my collarbone, swiftly bringing his lips to mine. He claims my mouth as he works his fingers in and out in slow, determined motions, his thumb bent, playing at my clit like the strings of a harp, each stroke purposeful, leading into the next.

“We’ve been over this.”

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