Page 104 of It Happened on a Sunday
“I don’t want to hurt you!” I choke out. It’s the best I can do.
“Then don’t,” he answers, and just that easily, heat explodes between us, drenching me in fiery incandescence from the inside out.
Making me need, when I promised myself I’d never need again.
Making me weak, when I’ve fought so hard and so long against any weakness.
Sly knows it, too. I can see it in his blown-out pupils, hear it in the breaths bellowing in and out of his lungs. Feel it in the rapid rise and fall of his chest as it brushes against me.
Tension builds between us, an agony of need rampaging through my veins as I hang, frozen on the edge of a precipice,waiting for whatever comes next.
My hands clutch at his chest. My hips move restlessly against his own. And my mouth—my traitorous, tragic mouth whispers, “Please, Sly. Please—”
I don’t get to finish the plea, which is probably a good thing because at this point I don’t have a clue what I’ll ask for.
And even less of an idea what I’ll beg for.
I do know, though, that when Sly’s mouth slams down on mine, nothing has ever felt so right.
The rightness scares me more than anything, has my entire being screaming at me to step back, to get away, to be anywhere but here even as I arch against him, desperate to get closer.
I hate the mishmash of wants and needs warring inside me, the indecision of whether to run or wrap myself around him like a ribbon on the best present ever. But this is hard. More, it’s terrifying. Because if I let him stay, if I let him make love to me like I so desperately want, then I’m doing more than just fucking in my dressing room.
I’m jumping in with both feet.
But then he looks me in the eye and whispers, “I’ve got you, Sloane. I promise. I have you.”
Experience tells me not to believe him, but lord help me, I do. And just that easily, any thought of resistance melts away.
One kiss, I promise myself as I get swept under. One kiss and I’ll make him go.
Except, like everything else when it comes to Sly, things don’t go according to plan. But how can they when his mouth ravages mine, not in a dance but in a claiming that vanquishes my defenses before I even realize there’s a battle to be won…and lost?
“Sly,” I gasp out, my hands sliding to his shoulders in a last-ditch effort to maintain control—over myself or the situation, I don’t know.
But the truth is, I’ve long since lost it, even before Sly wraps his free hand around my waist and pulls me closer, head lolling back to bare my jugular until I don’t even have the illusion of control anymore. And then he attacks, ravaging the sensitive skin of my neck, my throat, my collarbone with open-mouthed kisses and careful little scrapes of his teeth that make me whimper his name.
“Sly!” This time when I call it, it’s a plea for him to never, ever stop.
And he doesn’t.
Instead, he propels me backward until I’m pressed against the nearest wall.
“Tell me you want this.” He meets my plea with his own as his hands fist at my sides. “Tell me this is okay.”
“I want this,” I gasp out as I hitch a leg around his waist and pull him closer, my whole body threatening to erupt. “It’s okay.”
“Tell me you want me,” he whispers against my skin, pushing my dress up to my hips.
“I want you,” I cry, the words falling over us like rain on a wildfire—too late to stop the burn, too soon to know if we’ll survive the flames. “I need you.”
“I need you, too,” he grinds out as he grabs both my wrists in one big hand. He uses the other to reach down and rip the top of my fishnet tights and panties clean off my body. “I need you, Sloane.”
Seconds later, he’s on his knees, his mouth on the very heart of me.
“Sly!” One second I’m calling his name, and the next he’s hurtling me straight into the cosmos so fast and hard that I can barely remember my name, let alone why I thought this was a bad idea.
But Sly doesn’t stop there. Not even close.
