11. Greer #2
"Was it?" I let my eyes drop to her mouth, then back up. "Because I think you came here for the same reason I've been going to Jersey every night for. Because you can't stop thinking about me any more than I can stop thinking about you."
Her jaw tightens. "You're cocky."
"I'm honest."
"You're presumptuous."
"Am I wrong?"
She doesn't answer. Just stares at me with those burning amber eyes, her chest rising and falling just a little faster than normal.
The air between us is electric, crackling with weeks of tension and want and the kind of chemistry that's been building toward this moment since the first time our eyes met across that fight club.
"Tell me to back off," I say quietly. "Tell me you only came for the money and I'll get it for you right now. You can leave and we'll pretend this didn't happen."
"And if I don't tell you to back off?"
"Then stop pretending you're only here for the money."
Her mouth curves into something that's all teeth and challenge. "Maybe I'm here to tell you to stop playing vigilante before you get yourself killed."
"You already tried that in the car. Didn't work."
"Maybe I'm here to remind you that I'm dangerous and you should stay away."
"I don't want to stay away." I reach out and catch a strand of her hair between my fingers, testing. She doesn't move. Doesn't pull back. "I want to get closer."
"Closer is how you get hurt, sweetheart."
The nickname sounds different in her voice now. Softer. Almost affectionate.
"I told you." I lean in, my mouth inches from hers. "I'd gladly bleed for you."
"You're obsessed." But she's not moving away. If anything, she's swaying closer.
"Yeah." I let my fingers trail from her hair to her jaw, feeling the smooth warmth of her skin. "I am. You have a problem with that?"
"I should."
"But you don't."
"No," she admits, so quietly I almost don't hear it. "I really don't."
And then she's kissing me.
Or I'm kissing her.
I don't know who moves first and I don't care because her mouth is on mine and it's nothing like I imagined during all those nights lying awake wanting her.
It's not soft or tentative or careful. It's harsh and desperate and fucking feral, her hands fisting in my shirt and yanking me closer while my fingers sink into her hair and tilt her head back so I can kiss her deeper.
Weeks of tension, of circling each other, of building toward this moment—it all breaks in that kiss.
Her mouth tastes like danger and challenge, and I'm drowning in it.
My hands are in her hair, tilting her head so I can kiss her harder, deeper, like I've been starving for this and she's the only thing that can sustain me.
She makes a sound against my mouth—half growl, half moan—and it ignites something primitive in my chest.
I need more. Need to shatter her world the way she's shattered mine. Need to make her feel even a fraction of what I've been feeling for two months.
I break the kiss long enough to grab her hips and lift.
She wraps her legs around my waist automatically, her eyes widening just slightly as I turn and set her on the kitchen counter.
The marble is cold beneath her but I don't care.
I step between her thighs, caging her in with my arms on either side of her body.
"Greer—"
"Please." The word comes out rough, desperate. I drop my forehead to hers, breathing hard. "Let me taste you. Please, Zaria."
Her fingers slide into my hair, gripping tight enough to send sparks of pain-pleasure down my spine. "Look at you," she murmurs, and there's something almost tender beneath the mockery. "So pretty when you beg."
"I'll beg more if that's what you want." I kiss her jaw, her throat, feeling her pulse hammer beneath my lips. "I'll get on my knees right here in my kitchen and worship you until you can't remember how to leave."
"Jesus." Her grip in my hair tightens. "You really are obsessed."
"Yeah." I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. "So let me prove it."
She studies me for a long moment, those amber eyes reading something in my face that makes her mouth curve into something dark and beautiful. Then she nods, releasing my hair to lean back on her palms. "Take them off."
I don't need to be told twice. My hands go to the button of her jeans, working it open, dragging the zipper down.
She lifts her hips and I pull the denim down her legs, taking her boots off in the process because I'm not about to let anything slow me down right now.
The jeans and boots hit my pristine floor and I don't give a single fuck about the mess.
All I can see is Zaria Bennett spread out on my kitchen counter in black underwear that's somehow both practical and devastating, her eyes locked on mine like she's daring me to follow through on my promise.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her underwear, watching her face as I drag them down her dark legs. She doesn't look away. Doesn't show even a flicker of vulnerability. Just watches me with that intense, predatory focus that makes my cock ache.
When she's bare from the waist down, she spreads her legs slowly. Deliberately. Giving me the clearest invitation I've ever received.
I groan. Can't help it. The sound rips out of my chest at the sight of her—wet and perfect and mine for this moment even if she won't be later.
"That's a pretty sound," she says, voice like smoke. "Make it again."
"Zaria—"
"Get on your knees for me." Her fingers return to my hair, guiding me down. "Show me how desperate you are."
I drop immediately. My knees hit the hardwood and I don't care that it hurts, don't care about anything except getting my mouth on her. I grip her thighs, pulling her to the edge of the counter, and lean in to drag my tongue through her in one long, slow stroke.
She tastes like heaven and sin and everything I've been craving. Her fingers tighten in my hair and I do it again, this time focusing on her clit, circling it with my tongue before sucking gently.
"Fuck." Her hips roll against my face. "Just like that."
I obey, working her with my tongue, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on that bundle of nerves that makes her grip my hair harder.
She's in complete control—dictating the pace with her hands in my hair, rolling her hips to take what she wants from my mouth—and I fucking love it.
Love that she's not soft or passive, that she's taking her pleasure from me like she takes everything else in her life.
"You're so good at this," she murmurs, and the praise makes me groan against her. "Such a good boy, doing exactly what I want."
The nickname has completely transformed. It's not an insult anymore. It's ownership. Possession. A claim that she's staking on me with every time she says it, and I want to wear it like a brand.
I push my tongue inside her, fucking her with it, and her thighs tighten around my head. "Yes. God, just like that. Don't stop."
I have no intention of stopping. I'm drowning in her, in the taste and scent and sound of her, and it's better than any high I've ever chased. Better than the rush of that first night at the fight club. Better than tracking down Rasheed and taking him apart with my fists.
This—making Zaria Bennett lose control on my kitchen counter—is the most alive I've felt since Dylan beat the shit out of me nine months ago.
I work her harder, faster, using everything I know about reading cues and responding to feedback.
When she gasps, I do more of whatever earned that sound.
When her thighs tremble, I know I'm close to something good.
When her fingers yank my hair hard enough to make my eyes water, I double down on that exact movement with my tongue.
"You're going to make me come," she says, and there's something almost wondering in her voice. Like she didn't expect this. Like maybe she thought she'd stay in control the whole time. "Fuck, Greer?—"
I pull back just enough to look up at her, my chin slick with her arousal. "That's the plan."
Her eyes are darker than I've ever seen them, pupils blown wide, and she looks absolutely wrecked in the best possible way. "You look so fucking good on your knees for me."