Page 11 of Let it Crackle
His hand comes up, tilting my chin. “Because I can give you that. I can give youeverything.”
“I—I wrote that scene aboutyou,Maddox.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to drag them back. But it’s too late.
He stiffens like I’ve just grabbed him by the throat.
Then? He groans. Like a man pushed past his breaking point.
“Oh, baby,” he rasps, voice ruined. “You don’t know what you just did.”
Before I can blink, he’s gripping my waist—gently, so goddamn carefully—and pulling me forward. I squeak, grabbing onto his shoulders as he sits in the big library chair and pulls me right onto his lap, straddling him.
I shouldn’t let this happen. Not here. Not with him. But being so close to Maddox and feeling his huge erection. I just can’t think straight anymore. And the library is closed.
His huge hands stay at my waist, warm and possessive, while his eyes blaze over me like he’s memorizing every inch.
He leans in, and his lips brush mine— softly at first. A whisper. A test. But when I don’t pull back, when I kiss him like I’ve been aching to since the moment he walked into the library again, something snaps between us.
His tongue slides against mine, slow and filthy, like he’s trying to taste the words I’d written on that page. One hand slides up my spine, the other down to cup my ass, squeezing like he can’t help himself. My hips shift instinctively, rocking against the hard line of him beneath me, and his groan rumbles low in his chest. I reach up, to take my glasses off so they don’t get in the way.
He hesitates for a second before shaking his head. “No. Leave them on.” His lips find my jaw, then my throat. “You look like a wet dream in glasses, sweetheart.”
I gasp, my head tipping back. He kisses the hollow of my throat, down to the collar of my dress. And then he’s slipping one strap down. Then the other. The dress pools in my lap, leaving me in just my bra and underwear, while he’s still fully dressed—station shirt clinging to his chest, pants straining with how hard he is beneath me. With one swift motion, he lifts the dress over my head and tosses it aside.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“I’m not scared,” I say.
“No. You’re not.” His hand slides over my bare thigh. “You’re turned on. And I haven’t even started.”
I moan, heat rushing through me as his hands roam everywhere—touching, teasing, exploring like he’s waited years for this. And maybe he has.
Maybe we both have.
Maddox is looking at me like I’m both art and sin. His hands are everywhere—steady at my waist, reverent at my hips, possessive at the small of my back.
“You know what reading that scene did to me, Maya?” he says, voice low, rough, dangerous. “You wrote about a man who’d wreck that woman—fill her, claim her. All I could see was us doing it.”
His fingers trail up my spine, slow and confident, like he’s memorizing every inch of me. I shiver under his touch, arching without meaning to. When his mouth brushes my throat, hot and open, I swear I feel it all the way to my toes.
“You’ve been in my head for years,” he murmurs, kissing a path along my jaw. “But now… now you’re under my skin.”
I whimper—God, actually whimper—and he groans like it’s his favorite sound in the world. His mouth captures mine, slow at first, all lips and heat and aching restraint. But when I grind down, seeking friction, he loses the leash entirely.
“Fuck, Maya,” he growls against my lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”
His hand cups my breast, thumb brushing my nipple through the lace, then slipping under to tease it bare. My head falls back, a moan tearing from my throat, and he’s on me—lips at my neck, tongue at my collarbone, worshipping like he’s dreamed of this for years.
I clutch his shoulders, fingernails digging in, desperate and undone. “Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please, Maddox. Don’t stop.”
He leans back just far enough to look at me. His gaze is wild, full of heat and hunger and something deeper. “You don’t get to hide anymore. I want to see every reaction, every little tremble you try to fight.”
My breath catches.
And when his hand slips between my thighs, slow and deliberate, I cry out, hips jerking against his palm. He hisses at the wetness he finds, like it’s a drug, like it undoes him.
“Christ, Maya… you wrote it,” he mutters, his fingers sliding and circling, “but I’m the one who gets to feel it.”
