Chapter 20
Wilder
His lips were soft, sweet-tasting things I couldn’t get enough of; the remnants of some fruity flavored chapstick still lingering behind long after he’d swiped the stick over them.
I tilted my mouth until it fully sealed over his, drinking in the moan that spilled from him the second I got his lips parted with my tongue.
There was no caution or reservations about this kiss, not at this point. I was tired of beating around the bush, pretending like Asher hadn’t just pushed me over the edge and tumbled us both into something we were supposed to be staying far away from.
My patience had snapped. Gone with that one ounce of self-control I’d had right up until he’d backed me into that corner and pressed his body against me.
Right before he’d let me see that lust-filled look in his eyes and feel how devilishly good his hips dragged against mine without him even meaning to.
I’d worry about regretting this later.
Right now, I needed whatever he was willing to give me.
He came easily when I grabbed him again, fitting my hands right at his waist to haul him up off his feet and get him sitting on top of the desk.
Despite me manhandling him, he wasn’t some waifish thing.
Not even close to the ragdoll I was treating him like that barely weighed more than a sack of feed.
Underneath the baggy t-shirts and relaxed jeans he liked to dress in, there was a solid frame built from months of hard labor.
I’d seen it time and time again, especially during the scorchers when the heat got so unbearable that even he had to give in to dragging the hem of his t-shirt over his face to swipe away the sweat, exposing a sliver of those tanned, toned muscles he liked to hide.
And fuck me, I’d noticed.
I always did.
Having him right here, legs spread just enough for me to step between, his hands coming up to grab at my wrists when I cupped his face again, like he was holding onto me for dear life, I didn’t have to just look anymore.
I could touch.
So I did.
Keeping one hand locked onto the side of his jaw, I let my other drift down, fingers trailing lightly over the smooth, flushed skin of his neck. His pulse fluttered wildly beneath my thumb, beating strong. If I had any doubts before of him keeping a level head about any of this, they were gone now.
Good.
I hated being the only one left a mess.
I splayed my fingers wide over the left side of his chest, using it to nudge him back until he laid flush down on the desk. He moved under me then, grabbing at the front of my shirt to haul me down on top of him before hooking a leg behind my hip to keep me pinned there.
A bold thing, Asher was.
It never ceased to surprise me.
With one last greedy swipe of my tongue over his bottom lip, I moved my mouth across his cheek to his neck, following the same trail I had with my fingers.
He tilted his head to the side, giving me better access as a soft moan spilled out of his mouth the second I latched on to the spot right where his pulse was.
“Oh, fuck,” came his choked response.
I’d never been the kind of man to mark my territory—never saw the point in it.
Always found it archaic and a little too desperate for my tastes.
That was the kind of thing a man did when he was insecure about where he stood with someone, and what did I care about any of that when it came to the one night stands I usually had?
They were all fleeting; meaningless the second the sun came up and the regretful hangover settled in behind my eyeballs. Leaving behind any evidence outside of a few rumbled sheets and a slight ache of my hips from going a little too hard the night before felt childish.
Usually.
With everything, though, came exceptions: Asher being the biggest of them all. He’d had me the moment we touched, the second he’d rolled those sinful hips of his to grind himself up into mine again, our jeans doing fuck all to hide how hot and bothered we were both getting.
Nothing was safe with him.
All my rules, what I thought I knew about myself, went straight out the window whenever he was around. It was like the world didn’t exist outside of whatever bubble he liked to trap me in, blocking out the whole world until nothing else mattered.
Fighting this felt wrong, though. I couldn’t do it anymore. Not when I was finally getting to touch and taste him.
I left the spot wet when I pulled my mouth off of his skin, used my thumb of the hand still wrapped around his jaw to tilt his chin even farther back to survey my handiwork. The mark was already pink, slowly blooming into a fiery red that made my cock twitch in my jeans.
I wasn’t used to feeling possessive, territorial, like this.
What was he doing to me?
Changing me. Flipping me inside out and wringing out whatever common sense I had left.
Asher wiggled his hand between us, squeezing into the tight space where we’d somehow molded our bodies together. I felt the brush of his knuckles against my stomach, the slow, teasing drag of them as they worked their way lower.
Fire burned in my gut.
Instead of stopping him, I let go of his face and braced my hand on the edge of the desk, using it to push myself up just enough to see what he was doing. I caught the quick flash of his hand as his fingers pinched around the button of my jeans and he gave it a hard yank to pull the fly apart.
A sharp groan escaped me because, fuck, my cock had been straining against my zipper for too damn long, desperate to be freed.
Only the thin barrier of my underwear was all that was left keeping me contained, stretched taut over my length and doing a terrible job at hiding just how much I wanted him.
He hooked both thumbs under my waistband to pull the material down, dragging it past my hips.
“Jesus Christ, Wilder.”
I had no time to ask him what the hell that meant before he cupped me in his hand, his palm warm even through my underwear. He traced his fingers along my length at a deliriously slow pace, moving up and down while he touched. It wasn’t near enough to being close to what I wanted—needed.
What I did need was to fuck myself into that hand of his and use it like it wasn’t anything more than a toy made for me. Something to ruin and claim, to make mine completely just like the rest of him.
I wanted to keep him pinned to this desk, hold him down until I made damn sure he knew exactly who he belonged to. Until I painted him with my cum, until he was covered in it. Marked just as thoroughly as that bruising bite on his neck.
Until there wasn’t a damn doubt left between us about what this was.
A low, broken noise slipped from my throat before I could bite it back. I gripped the edge of the desk so tight it made my knuckles ache.
“How the fuck do you ride with this thing?” he asked, squeezing me.
My head grew fuzzy then, wiping any thought I could’ve had next clean from my mind. Nothing but him touching me was getting through, turning me into the kind of lust-drunk, wrecked mess I used to turn my nose up at whenever I saw someone like that out at the bar.
I was losing it, coming apart too fast while being caught up in the heat of the moment. Fucking helpless to whatever he was doing to me and too far gone to stop any of it before it all ended too soon.
I wanted to hold on—drag this out and savor it while I still could. Before I let the shame and guilt ruin it once sense finally hit me again.
“Tell me your secret,” he said.
I nearly cursed when his hand left me, my hips jerking involuntarily, desperate for friction, touching, for anything.
“I’m so curious.”
What in the hell is he talking about?
He shoved my underwear down, freeing me completely.
My cock slapped down against his stomach, the head leaving a slick, wet trail of precum against the front of his t-shirt. It pooled, darkening the material slowly, seeping down into the fibers to where his skin was.
The sight of it made something hot and primal snap loose inside me. A low, guttural sound tore from my throat as I watched more of it leak onto him.
Yes. Just like that.
I reached for his shirt without thinking, twisting a tight fist around the fabric and yanking it up in one swift motion, losing whatever was left of my self-control in the process.
I needed to see all of him, needed to mark him all over just like that little voice in the back of my mind was itching for me to do.
His tanned skin was revealed inch by inch, his abs flexing beneath my touch when I grazed the back of my hand over him.
I rolled my hips again, dragging the head of my cock along his stomach to coat him in me, smearing more of that wetness across his abs, a claim as blatant as the mark I’d left on him already.
Ridiculous.
Caveman.
Possessive in a way I never thought I was capable of.
But I didn’t care because no one else was ever going to see him like this. No one else would ever know what he looked like beneath them, flushed with those half-lidded, lust-filled eyes that stared up at me, his skin sticky with my cum as he panted my name.
God help me, I wanted to ruin him.
I grabbed his wrist the moment he moved his hand to fist around me, my fingers closing tight before pinning it down to the desk beside his head.
A sharp breath escaped him, his body tensing beneath mine, but he didn’t protest. Like some part of him liked it—liked being held down, that I was taking control.
But as with anything that came with Asher Torres, he was just as damn stubborn as they came.
His other hand snaked around before I could think, fingertips grazing over the sensitive head of my cock, smearing the slickness there like he wanted to tease or test me until it pushed me over the fucking edge again.
I damn near lost it.