Chapter 29 #2
He kisses me like he is still asking and already starving. One hand cups the back of my head, fingers tight in my hair, while the other drags down my side, over my ribs, waist, and hip, learning the shape of me through the dress. My hands go to his shirt, and I moan.
His mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck, his teeth scraping lightly over the spot beneath my ear.
My hips jerk against him, and his hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me harder into him.
I feel him through his jeans, thick and hot against my stomach, and the knowledge of what’s waiting—what his piercing will feel like—makes my entire body ache.
“You feel that?” he asks, his voice low against my skin.
“Yeah,” I breathe out.
“That’s what sitting beside you at the bar did to me.”
I laugh breathlessly. “I ate fries.”
“You wore this dress and licked salt off your thumb with the look of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”
“I did know,” I admit while his hands squeeze my ass.
His teeth close gently on my neck.
“Then take responsibility.”
Oh.
Well.
I may be thinking about that line for the rest of my life. While I’m banking. Maybe even while at the dentist.
Definitely every time I see a French fry.
I open my mouth to deliver something clever. Something sharp enough to make it seem like my entire body hasn’t just surrendered to him.
But nothing comes out.
His mouth curves against my skin. “No argument?”
“I’m choosing silence as a tactical response.”
“Liar.”
His hand slides from my thigh to my waist, fingers spreading wide and warm over the curve of me. He pulls back just enough to look at my face, and whatever humor was there is gone.
It makes the little entryway of my place feel smaller. Warmer.
Behind us, the door is locked. Warren glances up the stairs, then back at me.
His hands are under my thighs before I can process what’s happening. He lifts me so easily my gasp gets lost against his mouth. My arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, my legs wrapping around his waist as he turns us toward the stairs.
The first step presses him hard against me.
The second steals the air out of my lungs.
By the third, I have one hand in his hair and the other gripping the back of his neck like gravity has become a rumor and Warren King is the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth.
I bite the side of his neck, and his step stutters.
He pauses halfway up the stairs, one hand tangling in my hair and pulling down.
It hurts so good.
“Can you be good for one second?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer breathlessly.
He carries me the rest of the way.
The living area opens around us in shades of silver and blue. Moonlight spills through the window over the fire escape, softening the mattress still on the floor.
He sets me down in the middle of the moonlight, his hands still on my waist and my dress hiked high from being carried against him. His gaze moves over me slowly.
“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” he says, his thumb running over my cheek.
I push his chest until he steps back, and his gaze narrows on my hands as I reach for the tie of my wrap dress. I loosen the knot, allowing it to fall open slowly, absolutely committed to making Warren King suffer in a way that benefits both of us.
His gaze drops.
I’m wearing blue lace.
He stills.
“Breathe,” I say.
He inhales once, unevenly.
“Again.”
His eyes lift to mine, and something in them flashes. “You like giving me instructions?”
“I like watching you follow them.”
His mouth tilts, but the heat in his face darkens. “Careful.”
“No.”
“No?”
I let the dress slide off my shoulders and pool at my feet. “I don’t want careful right now.”
He walks toward me slowly, taking my hand. He walks me backward toward the mattress. I stumble once, and he catches me at the waist, dragging me against him with a low laugh. “Your apartment is a hazard.”
“I’m trying to have sex with you, Warren.” I shove his shirt. “Off.”
He removes it, and for a moment I forget whatever insult I was preparing. His tattoos move over muscles in dim light. Every hidden piece of him visible.
When I reach for his belt, he catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Eyes on me.”
My whole body obeys before my brain can make a sarcastic comment.
He kisses me once, hard, then turns me and sits on the edge of the mattress, pulling me between his spread thighs. The position makes him look even larger, shirtless and tattooed, his hair coming loose, his hands resting on my hips like he’s trying to decide whether to worship or ruin.
Knowing Warren, he will attempt both.
He slides one hand down the back of my thigh, then up again, slow enough to make my skin pebble. His thumb slips beneath the edge of my underwear and strokes me.
“Did you wear this for me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
I swallow. “I wore this for you.”
His hand slides up my back, unhooking my bra with the kind of competence that only makes me hotter. He removes it slowly, then presses his mouth to the center of my chest, right above my heart.
Not my breast.
Not yet.
His mouth moves lower, and I forget language.
He kisses one breast, then the other, his beard scraping lightly, tongue hot over sensitive skin. His hands are everywhere at once, broad palms gripping my waist, my ribs, my hips. Thumbs learning what makes me lean closer, fingers pressing into the backs of my thighs when my knees go loose.
My hands twist in his hair when he closes his mouth over my nipple, sucking deep enough that my spine arches.
The sound I make isn’t quiet.
“I want more of those.”
“Bossy.”
“I spent my entire time down there imagining this dress on the floor.”
I sit back, my hands crossing over my stomach.
“No hiding,” he says, grabbing them. “You don’t get to start this and pretend like you’re not soaked for me.”
A needy sound breaks out of me.
He stands me up before getting on his knees.
Warren hooks his fingers into the sides of my underwear and drags them down my legs, pausing to kiss my stomach, my hip, and the inside of my thigh. By the time the lace hits the floor, I’m shaking, and he hasn’t even put his mouth where I need it.
He leans back on his hands for a second and looks at me.
“Come here,” he commands.
My stomach flips. “Where?”
His hands close around my hips. “On my mouth, beautiful.”
Oh god.
Death by Baker.
A classic.
I climb onto his lap carefully, and his hands grip my hips, pulling me forward as he drops onto his back on the bed.
I hover above him, and he squeezes me. “Sit.”
I lower myself.
His groan against me is immediate. Deep and rough, like the first taste of me took something from him.
I brace one hand on the wall, immediately annoyed with myself for not buying a bed frame sooner, while the other curls in his hair. His mouth opens under me, hot and sure, and his tongue moves with obscene patience until my laugh turns into a moan and my hips rock before I decide to move them.
He takes a breath. “That’s it, Hal. Use my mouth.”
My head tips back.
He slides one hand up my thigh to my hip, the other spreading over my ass, guiding the rhythm when I lose it. His fingers press into me hard enough to leave a mark, and the thought makes me clench around his head. He groans again, absolute pleasure spilling from him.
I look down and nearly come from the sight alone.
Warren beneath me, hair loose against the mattress, tattoos dark over his chest and shoulders, eyes open and fixed on my face like watching me fall apart is the only thing he ever wanted to be good at.
His mouth becomes firmer, his tongue stroking exactly where I need him, then circling and sucking until the pleasure snaps bright and sharp through me. I try to lift away when it feels too much, and his hands clamp down on my hips.
“Stay,” he says against me.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It’s too much.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on mine. “Give me one.”
I break. Hard.
My release punches through me so fast I barely have time to breathe before I’m shaking over him, thighs trembling against his head, his name tearing out of me in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like mine.
It sounds alive.
He holds me through it, mouth softer now, hands still steady around my thighs. When I finally come down from the high, he flips me over, my back hitting the bed as a surprised whoosh leaves me.
Warren grabs my leg, kissing up my thigh. “I need you inside of me,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes. “I know.”
“Don’t say that unless you’re about to do something about it.”
His mouth curves. “I’m about to, Hal.”
He stands, and I sit up.
“But first,” he says, and his hand slides to his jeans. “I want you to look at me while you take me out.”
My breath catches.
I shift back to open his jeans. My hands aren’t steady while he watches me with heavy-lidded focus as I drag the zipper down and push denim and briefs low enough to free him.
The first glimpse of him steals the air out of my lungs.
Hard, thick, flushed. The piercing gleaming in the low light, one piece through the base of the head, the other right under.
I wrap my fingers around him and feel his body jolt.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
The word is so unlike his controlled kitchen voice that heat floods through me again.
I stroke him once, slowly, letting my thumb brush against the metal. His hips push into my hand.
I do it again.
His hand locks around my wrist, not stopping me, just holding on like I’ve found the one thing holding the last of his control together.
“Careful.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep touching me like you want me to lose my mind.”
I lean in and brush my mouth over his. “Maybe I’m desperate for you to.”
His grip tightens. “Then keep your eyes open.”
I do.
I stroke him again, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his brows pull together, and the way the muscles in his stomach jump every time my fingers pass over the piercing.
He makes sounds like he’s desperately trying to keep them back and failing, low groans and rough breaths that make me ache between my thighs again.
“You have no idea what your hands do to me,” he says.
“I have some ideas.”