Page 44 of Crow

Chapter 13

Tarynn

Idon’t think Crow had very many drinks at the club, but he seems happier now that we’re here. Less… or maybe it’s more. More outgoing. Less uptight. Free and easy and happy. I don’t know what it is, but it’s a little bit like he’s a completely different person.

Honestly? Who am I to talk?

Here I am, following him through the hotel, into the elevator, where we’ll end up in either his room or mine. I opened my legs for him at a strip club after getting a private lap dance from a beautiful woman. I kissed him an alley after I touched myself and he sucked my fingers clean. I had my hand on his erection all the way back here.

I might be in Sin City, where anything goes, but I don’t recognize myself either.

I reach into my bag and get my keycard out. Crow doesn’t protest. He hasn’t said anything since he got into the cab. He’s been silent this whole time, but I could hear how his breathing changed when I stroked him. He wants this as badly as I do. If I was anyone else, he might have taken me right there in the alley, up against the hard brick of that building, but, in deference to my feelings, he wanted this to be private.

He’d probably never say it out loud, but I think he wants this to be special for me.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I’m a virgin, and Crow is smart.

We stumble into the room together. He slams the door shut and I grab him. We nearly trip over all the bags of shopping that I’ve placed haphazardly all over the whole suite.

I kiss him, practically climbing him, whimpering and breathing like a wreck as my insides turn to liquid fire. I want this far too badly to have any inhibitions left. This is what a lifetime of restraint falling away looks like. I don’t care that we barely know each other. Alcohol or not, I’ve felt the chemistry sizzling, barely controlled, sine that first minute I spoke to him at Patti’s. It feels like an entire lifetime ago. Months. Years.

I tear my scrap of a shirt off, growling like an animal. I’m wearing an old bra. It’s hardly sexy. It doesn’t push anything up.

Crow’s mouth attacks my neck, teeth scraping over my skin, tongue hot and devouring. He tears at my bra straps, but stops with his hand on the back clasp.

“Please,” I whimper. “Please take it off.”

He cups my breasts as soon as the bra falls away. It feels so fucking good that my head slams forward. I kiss the side of his neck, licking as much of him as I can reach. He’s intoxicating, slightly salty, clean and fresh. All primal male.

Our hands explore each other, our mouths meeting, kissing and tasting, sucking and biting, until he stops by the bed, tearing away, a tortured expression on his hard face. “I don’t have a condom. Do you?”

Fuck! “No.”

Well, fucking shit, fuck. I guess that’s it for this then.

There’s no way that we can have sex without protection. I’m not on the pill. Having a family might be in my plans for the distant future, but I don’t want one now. I would never want to put that pressure on either of us.

Crow is responsible. He’s the one using his brain. I’m just a hot mess of desire that I can’t control.

“We can do other things.”

His brows crash down in doubt. I know what he’s thinking. If we cross a certain line, we won’t be able to stop.

“You can fuck me six ways to Sunday without using your cock.” This the first time I’ve ever dared speak that word out loud. Sure, I’ve read it, and frequently, but any time I have ever used words for the male anatomy, it has been the correct academic, biological terms. I have to slap a hand over my mouth to contain my giggle. “It’s very convenient that it’s still Sunday. Or is it?”

Crow glances at the nightstand where there’s a digital clock. “Not technically, but just past.”

“Next Sunday then.”

“Tarynn…”

It sounds like he’s going to follow my name up with a list of reasons we shouldn’t do this, and I can’t let him do that. I snap my fingers, taking control even though I have no idea what I’m doing. I indicate his clothes. “Get naked.” I almost use his club name, but I saw how whispering his real name affected him in the alley. I can’t imagine he tells many people what it is. It’s an honor that he bestowed on me, a secret that he gave up and put in my hands. I’ll call use it for as long as he’d like me to. “Please, Owen.”

That’s all it takes. He rolls his shoulder back, tilts his face up, and closes his eyes like he’s uttering an irreverent silent prayer. He grabs the neck of his t-shirt and yanks it over his head.

I’d seen snippets of his ink before, but damn… this man is incredibly beautiful. He’s entirely made of rock hard, sinewy muscle. Thick in the shoulders and arms, leaner as his chest narrows to his waist. He’s an athlete and then some. He looks more like a cage fighter or a boxer, not a weightlifter. Dark ink swirls over much of his skin. His arms are entirely covered, his pecs and chest too, but it’s not a solid picture. I’ve seen illustrations of old timey tattoos, and that’s what he has. I wonder how many he’s given himself.

Swallows, a lighthouse, a praying saint with long swirling robes, brass knuckles, a gun… I want to keep looking and take it all in, but he’s already undoing his jeans and toeing off his boots. He undresses without a hint of being self-conscious, but then, why would he be? He’s glorious.

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