Page 52 of Text Me, Take Me

I take a step back, trying to convince my tangled mind that this is too much, that he’s messing with my head and heart and I don’t want it, don’t need it, but I do. That’s the cold truth. No–the boiling hot truth.

“Let’s just eat,” I whisper.

His eyes clear after a moment, like a man waking from a dream. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I sit, smiling at him. “No, you’re not.”

He smirks. “You’re right. I can’t be sorry for wanting you. But I know I need to behave.”

“I’m scared, Dom. Can you blame me? I was a prisoner all my life without even knowing it, and now, it’s the same thing. I’m a prisoner–but I don’t feel like one.”

“I’m a prisoner too,” he snarls.

“How’d you figure that?”

“The moment you walked into my office, I was a prisoner. To you. To this feeling. To this desire. Call me crazy if you want, but I’ve never felt like this. When this is over and I force myself to do the right thing, to release my Keepsake, I know I’ll never feel this way again.”

As we eat, he asks me about my work, changing the subject so that we can let some of this passionate fire go. But I can tell by the way he looks at me he wants to touch me again, kiss me, own me.

I want it too, but I have to be strong.

Soon, it’s time for bed. I change into shorts and a T-shirt, then climb beneath the covers. Meatball has disappeared elsewhere in the house, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the fire in my heart and sex.

I can’t sleep, though. I can’t stop thinking about him. I get hot and heavy, replaying every moment in my mind. To distract myself, I carefully braid my hair. The action has always brought me comfort, but with each subtle movement, I can’t help but think of Dom’s hand wrapped around it.

Dominating, owning, leading the way.

CHAPTER 19

DOM

I’m supposed to be on my best behavior, but I can’t sleep. Evie dominates my thoughts. I told her the truth, revealed the savagery inside of me. She asked me to stop, to back off.

I should keep my promise.

But I can’t. I move through the house like an assassin, hunger fueling me.

She must hear me coming. When I open her bedroom door and look across the moonlit room, she’s no longer lying in bed.

She stands by the edge of the bed, her breathing shallow, her chest rising and falling in a teasing rhythm. Her braid lies over her shoulder, beautifully. The shirt she wears is too thin, nearly transparent in the low light. It clings to her curves like it was made for her. No bra. No shame. Her nipples are stiff, pressing against the fabric, and her thighs are just slightly parted, an invitation to my obsessed hunger.

I cross the room slowly, letting the tension stretch between us.

“Take it off,” I growl.

She hesitates for half a second–I see the flicker of rebellion in my Keepsake’s eyes–but then pulls the shirt over her head. Her breasts bounce free, full, heavy, aching to be touched. My cock stiffens at the sight of her. Her skin is smooth and glowing, her waist flaring into those thick, perfect hips.

She’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Now the shorts.”

Her fingers move slowly, teasing the waistband down, revealing more of that soft, tempting skin. She peels them off inch by inch, and when they drop to the floor, she’s bare, legs parted enough to show me the glistening heat between them.

I cup her breast with one hand, firm and warm in my palm, and pinch the nipple between my fingers. She gasps, her eyes fluttering closed as her back arches. My other hand slides down over her stomach, between her thighs. I run a single finger through her slick folds.

“So wet already. You want this cock?”

She nods, breathless.

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