Page 122 of Go Luck Yourself
And then.
A zeroing in. A full-system reset that fixates him on me with a singular, agonizing look so primal as to be animalistic. Hungry, and barely restrained, and in it, all my final vestiges of anxiety dissipate becausehe wants me.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I can do that.”
He releases my neck to hook my shirt with his fingers, and then it’s up and off and this room isn’t at all cold but I shudder in the rush of being hit by another ruthless, thrashing wave, ribs contracting around unusable lungs.
Loch makes an absolutely shattering rumble in his chest, a growl that prickles goosebumps of anticipation up the backs of my arms. His fingers coast down one of my shoulders, following the exposed art across my pec—mountains, fang-like crests that ripple into the valley of my sternum. He jumps that valley to trail the other side’s tribal designs up to my shoulder, the barest fingertip touch that draws every bit of skin he ghosts over like iron filings to a magnet. His eyes plummet to the spreading branches of holly over my stomach, the leaves drawn to knife points as sharp as the mountains. Two of the bows frame my pelvis, extending beneath the edge of my boxers, and that’s where he stops, making another shattering rumble that sounds like anguish.
“Christ, Mary, and Joseph. These tattoos. Your muscles. It’s like you’re formed of all my weaknesses.”
“Am I?” I’m shocked I can speak at all for the lack of air in my body. “What else do you like?”
He spreads his fingers out on my stomach, and I can’t think, can’t breathe, his hand is flat on my body and I am undone.
“This,” he says, his lips against my cheek. “This. This. This—”
“I have more.” It squeezes out, some separate, hovering part of me. “Tattoos. More tattoos. You’ll have to find them, though.”
His hand stills. “Kris,” he beseeches, desperately messianic.
My mind goes to the huge tableau I have on my left thigh, how the art spreads down to my knee but, most importantly, up,upand up, and it hurt like abitchto extend it where I did. But god, now, fuckingnow,I thank my past masochistic tendencies because I’m hit with the image of Loch licking the art on the inside crease of my thigh.
He grabs my neck again and his lips drop to my shoulder and he bites, hard. I cry out, scrambling for a hold on his arms, on his hips;my fingers brush the molded hills of his abs and I die a slow, quivering death.
Why the fuck did I wear jeans that are sofucking tight.
“Kris,” he says into the bite mark, the wash of his breath and the scratch of his beard oversensitive on the spot. I still have a bandage on my shoulder, and he lightly brushes his lips over it before sending those lips up to my ear. “What do you want me to do to you?”
I laugh. It’s wheezy and delirious. “I—I don’t know—”
He pinches my neck tight enough that I’m overly aware of my pulse throbbing, and when he drags his lips along my jaw and I twist to him, he keeps me down with a curling smirk.
“Asshole,” I grunt.
His mouth comes in next to my ear until he sucks my lobe between his teeth and stars break and reform in the bottom of my belly.
“Tell me what you thought I’d be like with you, then,” he whispers. “I know you thought about it, alone in that guestroom. Or in that shower? With my face in your head and your cock in your hand. Were we nice and slow, or did I fuck you until that filthy wee mouth of yours finally stopped talking?”
Holy shit.
I try to pull him closer, but he’s staying resolutely back now, far enough that the only points of contact are our hands on each other’s bodies.
“You did—” My supports are falling away. I’m left with an excruciating whimper. “Everything. Anything. I don’t know. I—fuck, Loch.Please.”
I taste his grin.
“You’re so pretty when you beg, Kris.”
My hips cant towards him, but he’s too far, and I need him, I need friction, Ineed—
“Buteverythingis an awful wide margin.” He nips my chin. “Tell me what you need, then.”
Another whimper. “Please, please.Fuck.I need—goddamn it,please—”
I claw at his chest, gain a grip on his shoulders, but it leads nowhere with the way he’s now studying my face, analysis that ends in a sultry chuckle.
“Ah, I think I know. You want me to decide, eh? You want me to take away the need to choose?”
