Page 64 of Cold as Stone
“Fuck,” he breathes against my lips. “Kya?—”
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, grinding down against him just enough to feel how hard he is through his jeans. “Please don’t stop.”
His hands fist in my shirt, holding me still. “The bet?—”
“I know.” I kiss along his jaw, tasting salt and something uniquely him. “I know, but just… We could lie…”
“You want to lie?” His voice is strained, like he’s barely holding on to his control.
“Just touch me. Please. I need… I needsomething.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to say no.
Instead, he says, “Fuck it,” and his mouth is on my neck, hot and hungry.
I gasp as he finds that sensitive spot just below my ear. His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my skin, and I arch into his touch.
“Is this okay?” he asks against my throat.
“More than okay,” I manage, tugging at his shirt. “Take this off.”
He pulls back just long enough to drag his shirt over his head, and I have to bite back a moan at the sight of him. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that look like they were carved from stone. But it’s the stories written on his skin that steal my breath.
A military tattoo covers his left shoulder surrounded by dates I know must mark deployments. Below it, script in another language winds around his ribs. There’s the Stoneheart MC logo across his right pec, and a jagged scar along his collarbone that looks like it came from a knife. Another smaller one marks his hip that’s too precise to be anything but a bullet wound.
This is what his life has been, violence and danger and missions I can’t even imagine. The evidence is carved into his skin, permanent reminders of how volatile his world is.
I run my hands over his chest, feeling the way his muscles jump under my palms, tracing the raised edges of scars that could have taken him from me before I ever had the chance to have him. He’s warm and solid and perfect, and I want to map every inch of him with my mouth.
“Your turn,” he says, his hands already working at the hem of my shirt.
I let him pull it off, suddenly self-conscious as his gaze travels over my body. I’m not wearing anything special, just a simple black bra that’s more functional than sexy, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m wearing the most beautiful lingerie in the world.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
Before I can respond, he’s kissing me again, deeper this time, his hands skimming over my bare skin like he’s memorizing every curve. When his thumb brushes over my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, I cry out, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs against my lips, doing it again just to hear me make that sound.
“Lee—”
“I know, baby. I know.” His hands are at my back, working at the clasp of my bra. “Let me see you.”
The bra falls away, and I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful, desired, beautiful under his hungry gaze.
“Perfect,” he says, his voice rough with want. “Absolutely fucking perfect.”
Then his mouth is on me, hot and wet and perfect, and I lose all ability to think coherently. All I can do is arch into him, my hands fisted in his hair, as he worships my body with a devotion that makes my heart ache.
“I want more,” I gasp when he switches his attention to my other breast. “Lee, please?—”
“What do you want?” he asks, pulling back to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” I whisper. “I need you.”
Something shifts in his expression, becomes more intense, more focused. “Lean back.”
I do as he says, settling back against the arm of the couch, and watch as he slides down my body. His hands are at the waistband of my leggings, fingers hooking under the elastic.
