Page 37 of Leather & Lies

Bastard.He’s going to make me beg. Make me admit how badly I need this. Need him.

Instead of answering, I arch into him, trying to force his mouth back to my skin. His laugh is dark and knowing.

“Not this time.” He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. “You want something? Ask for it.”

“I hate you.” But my voice is wrecked, needy.

“No.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and I have to fight not to take it into my mouth. “You hate how much you want this. How much you need it.” His other hand slides down to grip my ass, grinding me against his thigh in a slow, dirty rhythm. “How much you need me.”

Lightning flashes, painting his face in stark shadows. For a moment he looks otherworldly. Dangerous. Like something that crawled out of my darkest fantasies.

This is madness, some still-rational part of my brain whispers.

But when his mouth claims mine again, I’m already lost.

His kiss devours me, consumes me, breaks me apart. One hand fists in my hair while the other works at my bra, and I should stop him, should think about what this means, but his teeth find my nipple through the lace and coherent thought scatters like storm debris in the wind.

“So responsive.” His voice is rough silk against my skin. “You fight me so hard, but your body knows who you belong to.”

I want to deny it. Want to prove him wrong. But then his mouth closes over my breast and I’m arching into him, desperate sounds escaping my throat.

“That’s it, little hellcat.” He works his way back up my throat, leaving marks I’ll feel tomorrow. “Let me hear you.”

“Fuck you.” But my nails are scoring his back as I pull him closer.

His laugh is dark and knowing. “Soon enough.”

Before I can process that promise, he spins me to face the wall. One hand splays across my stomach, holding me against his chest while the other traces fire down my side.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” His teeth graze my ear. “Tell me to stop.”

I should. God, I should. But his fingers are tracing the waistband of my panties, and I’m pushing back against him, shameless and needy. It’s been too long, and he’s played my body too well, teasing me and tormenting me, never quite giving me the relief I need, not since that explosive afternoon in the tack room.

A crack of thunder shakes the shack. Or maybe that’s just me, trembling as his hand slides lower.

I give in to my need. “Please.” The word escapes on a broken moan.

“Please what?” His fingers pause, teasing. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you need.”

“I need—” But I can’t say it. Can’t admit how desperately I want him to touch me. Can’t admit how he affects me.

“Need what?” He nips my ear. “Need me to stop?” His hand starts to withdraw.

“No!” The word tears free before I can stop it.

I feel his smile against my neck. “No what?”

He’s going to make me spell it out. Make me beg for it.

But when I stay silent, his hand slides away completely. “Have it your way.”

The loss of contact is physical pain. I grab his wrist, trying to pull his hand back.

“Ask for it.” His voice is pure command. “Tell me what you need.”

Thunder growls overhead, and something inside me breaks.

“Touch me.” The words come out desperate, pleading. “Please, Jackson. I need—I need you to touch me.”

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