Page 112 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
As if reading his mind, Nia leaned in, her lips heated, possessive, her tongue finding his with an urgency that left him dizzy. Lochlan groaned, his hand sliding up her side to tangle in her hair as her nails scraped lightly against his leg, a silent taunt that had him cursing softly against her mouth.
The tight space, the press of bodies in the club beyond, the low thrum of music vibrating in his chest—it all faded until there was only her. Her taste reminded him of fairy wine, dark and heady, her kisses leaving him drunk and aching. His body responded before he could stop it, his cock straining against his jeans as her hand shifted dangerously close.
She must have felt it, because her grin against his lips was pure mischief. Her teeth grazed his bottom lip before she shifted her attention to his neck, her lips and tongue finding the sensitive skin just below his ear. Lochlan’s hand tightened in her hair as she kissed her way down, her teeth nipping lightly at his pulse.
“I’m going to lose my mind,” he muttered, half to himself, half to her.
Nia laughed softly, pleased.
His eyes darted to the shadowed corners of the club, searching for something—anything—that could give them some semblance of privacy. But there wasn’t much in a place like this, and Nia was in pants: tight, unforgiving pants that made it impossible to do what he wanted to do.
“What’s wrong, Loch?” she murmured, her breath warm against his skin.
Her lips found the hollow of his throat, her tongue teasing against his skin as she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “What are you looking for?” she asked, her voice low and playful.
“A place where I can peel those pants down and taste that pretty little?—”
Nia didn’t let him finish. She silenced him with a kiss, her lips slanting over his with a fervor that made him groan. Her hips shifted slightly, and the faint sound she made—a soft, breathy moan against his mouth—nearly drove him over the edge.
Grabbing Lochlan’s hand, Nia pulled him out of the booth. The noise and lights of the club blurred around them as she led him toward a door tucked discreetly near the back. His heart hammered, his body buzzing from her touch, her kiss, the promise in her eyes.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, tugging him after her. It was a small office, cluttered but private, the faint scent of old paper and spilled alcohol lingering in the air.
Lochlan glanced around, his brow furrowing as Nia flipped the lock.
“Are we allowed in here?”
She turned to him, her lips curving into a smirk that sent a shiver down his spine. “The owner owes me a few favors. Looks like it’s time to collect one.”
Before he could respond, she was on him, her hands gripping the front of his shirt as his back hit the door with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by the sensation of her lips moving against his. His hands moved to her waist, as he turned her, guiding her back against him in one smooth motion. The soft gasp she gave sent a jolt of satisfaction through him, and he tightened his grip, fingers pressing into her hips as if daring her to pull away.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes dark with heat, the corner of her mouth curving into a knowing smirk that made his breath hitch.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” she murmured.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Lochlan’s hands moved to the waistband of her pants, his fingers finding the button and peeling them down with care. The sight of her bare skin beneath sent a rush of heat through him, and he swallowed hard as she bent slightly, bracing herself against the edge of the desk.
He dropped to his knees behind her, his hands steadying her hips as he leaned in, his breath grazing her skin. Lochlan didn’t hesitate, his tongue flicking out to taste her, and the sound she made—a sharp gasp followed by his name—nearly unraveled him.
“Nia,” he murmured against her, his voice reverent, thick with need. He buried himself there, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes, savoring her taste. She was intoxicating, every sigh and moan she gave spurring him on.
Lochlan’s hands slid up her thighs, his grip firm, keeping her steady as he continued, his own moans muffled against her skin.
“Loch,” she gasped, her voice strained, her hips moving involuntarily against him.
He groaned into her, the sound sending a shudder up her spine he could feel as his hands gripped her hips, holding her steady, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. He could stay here forever—drowning in her, unraveling her inch by inch—but her legs were shaking, her body strung tight, every muscle locked as she fought to stay upright.
Her breath hitched, her moans edged with desperation. He felt it—knew it—the tension coiling low in her belly, winding tighter with every lick of his tongue, every maddeningly slow stroke.
And then he eased off.
A teasing drag. A lingering kiss to her backside. A deliberate pause that sent her keening against the desk, her fingers gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“Loch,” she gasped, her voice raw with frustration.
He savored the way her body trembled, the way she pushed back as if she could chase his mouth, as if she could force him to give her what she needed. Not yet. His hands traced slow, soothing patterns along her thighs, a contrast to the vivid heat pulsing between them. Another teasing stroke of his tongue. Another retreat.
