Page 150 of The Contract

The city stretches behind me, lights twinkling, a thousand stars burning beneath us, but all I can see is him.

Damien sets me down onto the wide ledge, the cool metal biting into the backs of my thighs, and his hands don’t stop moving—gripping my waist, sliding down my thighs, pulling me closer.

My legs lock around him as he steps between them, his large hands splaying across my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, teasing, coaxing.

“Elena.” His voice is a warning. A plea. A demand.

His lips trail along the column of my throat, his breath hot, his control hanging by a thread.

He wants permission.

He wants me to break the final barrier between us.

I shift, arching against him, my fingers trailing up his chest, nails dragging lightly across his bare skin.

“Damien.” My breath is uneven, shaky. “Take it off.”

He doesn’t ask if I’m sure.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers find the collar of my jersey, peeling the fabric down inch by inch.

The cool night air kisses my bare skin, sending a shiver racing down my spine as the jersey slips lower, exposing my breasts to the open night.

He groans, a deep, reverent sound.

“Jesus, fuck.”

His hands drag up my sides, his thumbs grazing over my nipples, making them tighten further.

His mouth follows. Hot and starved.

His lips close around one peak, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue swirling, licking, teasing.

I gasp, fingers threading into his hair, my body shaking as he devours me.

His teeth graze the sensitive bud before he sucks harder, his other hand squeezing the soft weight of my other breast, kneading, teasing, rolling the peak between his fingers.

A moan rips from my throat, and I roll my hips against him, grinding against the thick, hard length straining against his pants.

His breath shudders against my skin, and his hands move—gripping my hips, guiding me against him, rolling his own hips in time with mine.

The barrier of my panties and his pants is unbearable. Too much and not enough all at once.

I need more.

I need him.

And from the way he’s breathing, from the way his hands are shaking—Damien Wolfe is barely holding on.

He fists my hair, tilting my head back, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Do you want me to stop?”

His eyes burn with something dark. Something primal.

“Fuck no.” I manage to put a whole sentence together.

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