Page 58 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
The shirt is gone, puddled at my feet. His hands find the waistband of my sleep pants next, rough and unhesitating, jerking them down my legs with a single brutal motion. I stumble, but he catches me easily, lifting me off the ground with a low growl that rumbles through his chest and into mine.
He lifts me, and my thighs part instinctively, wrapping around his hips, my bare skin dragging against the worn denim of his jeans. The thick, hard press of him between my legs makes my head spin, my nails digging helplessly into his shoulders as he pins me there, body to body, fire to fire, with nothing left between us but heat and need.
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
I don’t need to.
Dominic’s grip tightens, anchoring me, controlling me, his mouth never breaking from mine as he devours every helpless sound I make, every shuddering breath.
I don’t know how to do this, how to bethis, but it doesn’t matter—because Dominic knows. He knows exactly how to touch me, how to take me, how to steal the ground out fromunder my feet until all that’s left is him, until all I can do is hold on and fall.
Dominic’s mouth drags down from mine, scraping over the line of my jaw, the column of my throat. He doesn’t kiss so much as devour, teeth grazing, biting, pulling gasps from my lungs that melt into desperate whimpers I can’t control. His stubble abrades my skin, rough and punishing, a branding I never want to fade.
His hands are everywhere—gripping, bruising, urgent. One palm splays across my ribs, fingers spanning almost from my spine to the curve of my breast, holding me still while he tears a path down the center of my body with his mouth. The other fists my hair, yanking my head back, baring my neck so he can bite his way across it, each sharp scrape of his teeth a savage promise.
I gasp, arching against him without thinking, needing more, needing all of him.
Dominic growls low in his chest—a raw, brutal sound that vibrates through his body and into mine—and thrusts his hips forward, grinding the thick, hard length of him against my bare, aching core.
I feel him—huge, merciless, ready.
“Fuuuuck,” he snarls against my throat, the word more breath than voice, ragged and ruined. “You’re fucking wet for me already.”
I can’t speak. Can’t think. I can only cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the worn cotton of his t-shirt as he grinds against me, harder this time, the pressure sparking heat and pleasure and unbearable need all the way up my spine.
I catch a glimpse of him—the hard, slick length of his cock, heavy and engorged—before he’s there, lining himself up, the blunt head dragging through the wet heat of my folds in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes my knees jerkand my breath shatter into pieces.
Then he thrusts up into me in one brutal, claiming surge.
I cry out, the sound ripped from my chest as he fills me, stretches me, splits me open around the thick, merciless thrust of his cock.
He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t give me time to catch up or find my footing.
He just pins me harder against the wall with the brutal weight of his body, one hand cupping my ass to hold me open for him, the other braced above my head, caging me in, owning me.
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, voice broken, forehead dropping to mine for a fleeting, trembling second. “You feel like sin, as if you were made for me.”
And then he’s moving—dragging out almost all the way before slamming back into me with a force that rocks the air from my lungs, that rattles the picture frames on the nearby wall.
Every thrust is brutal. Unforgiving. A wild, feral claiming.
My head falls back against the wood with a thud, my legs tightening around his waist, trying to anchor myself as he drives into me again and again, the thick ridge of him hitting deep, deeper, battering every locked door inside me until all that’s left is shattered pieces and desperate sounds I don’t recognize as my own.
The fire roars beside us, heat licking over my naked skin, sweat slicking between our bodies.
Dominic’s mouth is everywhere—biting at my jaw, my throat, my shoulder, like he can’t get close enough, can’t mark me deep enough. He scrapes his teeth over my collarbone, bites down hard enough to leave a bruise, and I shudder violently, my body already careening toward something huge and terrifying and inevitable.
“You feel that?” he snarls against my skin, his voice a whipof sound. “You’re mine now. You became mine the second you crossed that line.”
I cry out, a strangled, broken sound that only makes him thrust harder, faster, the brutal rhythm sending shockwaves through my entire body.
Every stroke shoves me higher. Every snap of his hips strips away another layer of fear, of control, of everything I thought protected me, but only kept me hollow.
I can feel it building, a tidal wave rising under my skin, inescapable, unstoppable.
And when it crashes?—
