Page 170 of The Ruthless Note

Dutch responds by shoving me back so I’m flat on the table. He grips my T-shirt. The flap of the hem rolling back is the only sound in the room.

I feel the fabric skittering against my stomach and then the cold rush of wind is replaced by the warmth of his lips on my chest.

Every flicker of his tongue taunts me. Leaves me vulnerable to the mouth scalding red, angry marks on my flesh, teasing me to fullness.

My body’s throbbing, the air is musky with my desire, and my legs are wide open, feeling the brush of his jeans in a torturous friction.

I’m keyed up, the pressure mounted to the ceiling, by the time he drags his attention to the rest of my body.

My eyes are closed, but I can hear him,feelhim, when he sucks in a sharp breath and drops his kisses lower.

Lower.

Lower…

I’m too taut, too hyper-aware of everything around me. The hum of the fridge. The little crack in the back of the table that digs into my spine. The scent of ketchup and lunch meat from Dutch’s sandwich.

My body is a bundle of nerves and tension and I can’t stay still when he puts his mouth on me, so soft and yet so firm. My back arches off the table. My fingers claw at his shoulders and hair. I’m panting, obsessed, torn apart from the inside.

This is what it means to be devoured.

This is what it means to die.

My nails rake into the solid muscle of his shoulder. I twist my hips to get away from him. He holds me down and quickens his pace.

I squirm and writhe.

It feels so good that it hurts.

But sweetBrahms, I don’t want it to stop.

Dutch flicks his tongue one last time and it obliterates me. Sparks blow up from my head to my toe. White-hot pleasure tears through me, splitting me in half.

The insatiable beast wrenches his mouth away. Pinning my arms above my head, he presses himself into me and kisses me again. The kiss sends a violent heat skittering through me and I moan, feeling exposed and whole and powerful.

He massages both of my hands until they’re flat and then he curls them under the edge of the table.

His amber eyes sharpen on me. “Hold on. Don’t move.”

“I—”

His dark, warning glare makes me clamp my mouth.

With my back flat on the table, all I can do is stare up. There’s a stain on the ceiling. A leakage that we never got around to—

I tighten like a guitar string when Dutch uses his fingers to do what his mouth once did.

Harder.

Faster.

I groan so loud I’m sure the neighbors can hear. I buck until I’m afraid the table will crumble and then I wrap my thighs around his hips, dig my heels into his legs, and try not to pass out.

Hot lashes of pleasure tear through me like a hurricane. It’s even more aggressive than the time in the pool because I’m keenly aware of him, his ragged groans, his hot breath against my thighs, the scalding press of his fingers.

My body melts into the table, my hair sticks to my neck.

He’s diving everywhere, deeper, further, until there isn’t an inch of me he hasn’t tasted, touched and branded with his name.

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