Page 33 of Her Possessive Biker
Rough palm. Calloused fingers. Biker hands. Fighter hands.
But they touch me like I’m sacred.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasps.
I arch into his touch, hips tilting back without thinking. My whole body hums, drawn to his gravity like it’s always been written into my bones.
This is how I’ve always wanted him. No walls. No filters.
Just Holt. Reaper. Unbound.
My skin flushes hotter. The air shifts. It’s charged, electric.
His hand coasts down the curve of my ass, over the back of my thigh.
His lips brush my shoulder. Slow. Soft. Heat.
I press my forehead to the bed, fists tightening around the sheets. My legs are already shaking. And he hasn’t even touched me properly yet.
“Holt, please,” I whisper.
He growls low. “You know how many nights I dreamed about this? You, begging for my cock?”
“Holt.”
“Been hard for weeks.” His palm slides up my neck, firm and grounding. “Every night since I met you.”
“Holt.”
“Sitting up in my room. Stroking myself.”
“Reaper.”
His thumb traces the crease of my thigh, light and maddening.
“Thinking about your pretty mouth. How good it would look wrapped around me.”
“Please, Holt. Please. I need you.”
“I know.”
His fingers find me. Slide inside.
A sharp cry slips from my throat.
His groan is low, guttural.
“Christ, you’re wet.”
A whimper escapes me as he goes deeper. My back arches. I’ve never felt like this, like I can’t get enough, like I’d shatter if he stopped.
“So tight,” he mutters.
“Please,” I gasp. “Please, Holt.”
His breath warms the curve of my shoulder.
And his voice darkens.
