Page 40 of Echo: Burn
"Willa." My name comes out rough, desperate, barely recognizable.
I look up at him through my lashes. "I want you." The certainty in my voice surprises me. "All of you. The scars, the damage, the isolation, the time you spent alone… I want every broken piece."
Something primal flares in his eyes—possessive, protective, hungry. I gasp in pleasure, back arching to press against him.
The dim lighting paints everything in shades of pale gold and amber, dancing shadows across his scarred chest and my exposed skin. His gaze tracks over me like a physical touch, and I feel it everywhere.
"Mine,” he says in a voice that is possessive, claiming, undeniable.
"Yes." I reach for him with hands that are steadier now. "Yours."
My fingers brush against the hard length of him through his pants and he hisses, hips jerking forward. I do it again, more deliberately, wrapping my hand around him through the fabric.
"Willa." It's a warning, a plea, a prayer all at once.
"I know." I squeeze gently and watch his eyes nearly roll back. "I want to feel you lose control. Want to know I can do this to you."
He moves fast—captures my wrists in one hand, pins them above my head against the wall. I gasp, testing the hold, findingit unyielding. Heat pools low in my belly, desire spiking at the dominance in the gesture.
"Is this okay?" His voice is strained, fighting for control even now.
"Yes," I say, my voice breathy and eager. "God, yes."
With his free hand, he traces the line of my throat, and I feel my pulse hammer against his fingertips. Down to my collarbone. Lower, to cup my breast through the thin fabric of my bra. My nipple is already hard, and when his thumb brushes across it I moan.
He wants to hear that sound again—I can see it in his eyes.
He works the clasp of my bra one-handed, pulls it free and tosses it aside. Then his hand is on me, palming one breast, then the other, learning the weight and shape while I writhe against the wall.
"Please," I gasp. "Kane, please."
He lowers his head, takes one nipple into his mouth, and I cry out. My back arches, offering myself to him. His tongue, his teeth—he alternates between gentle and rough until I'm panting his name.
When he releases my wrists, my hands immediately go to work on his belt. This time I succeed, and his pants hit the floor. He kicks them aside, leaving him in just boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how much he wants me.
I slide my hand inside, wrap around his cock, and he groans at the contact. Hot, hard, perfect. I stroke him slowly, learning the length and girth, my thumb swiping across the head where moisture has already gathered.
"Lay back," he manages. "Now. Before I take you on the floor."
"Maybe I want that."
"Next time." He lifts me easily, and my legs wrap around his waist. "First time, I want you underneath me where I can see every expression, hear every sound."
He lays me down as I reach for him as he strips off the rest of his clothes, my eyes tracking every movement with hunger I don't try to hide.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties, the last barrier between us. "These need to go."
I lift my hips and he slides them down my legs, tossing them aside. Now we're both completely bare, nothing between us but air and desire.
When he covers my body with his, skin against skin, it feels like coming home to a place I didn't know existed. His hands map my body, fingers tracing every curve without hesitation.
He takes his time despite the urgency I can feel vibrating through him. His mouth finds my breast, and I feel the wet heat of his tongue circling my nipple in slow, deliberate passes. Each circle tightens the coil low in my belly. My hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white, needing something to hold onto as sensation floods through me.
"Kane." His name, breathless, barely more than a whisper.
He draws the peaked flesh into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me gasp. The pull of his mouth sends a direct line of pleasure straight between my thighs. My hips roll upward instinctively, seeking friction, anything to ease the building ache. He shifts his weight, pressing his muscular thigh between mine, and the contact is exactly what I need and nowhere near enough.
I grind against him, shameless in my need, feeling the hard muscle of his leg against my most sensitive parts. The friction is delicious torture.
