Page 36 of Twisted Shot
Her lips part. Her voice slips out, breathless and soft, barely a whisper. “Kiss me.”
Something changes in his posture. The glint of mischief in his eyes disappears, smothered by something molten and direct. Hunger. Approval. Claim.
Strong hands find her waist as he crushes his lips to hers, fierce and hungry. The kiss steals her breath and replaces it with fire. Her spine hits the cedar wall of the gazebo, the cool wood pressing into her back as he holds her in place with the weight of his body, and she lets him. Her hands claw at the fabric of his cape, anchoring herself to him as her mouth opens beneath his, yielding completely.
He tastes of heat and whiskey and dark, sinful promises. Her head swims. Her dress rides up her thighs with every shift of her hips, fringe swaying against her bare skin, teasing every nerve ending to life.
His lips leave hers to find her neck, and she gasps when his mouth finds the soft spot below her ear. Her head tips back against the wood behind her, offering more. She can’t help it.
“You taste incredible,” he rasps into her neck.
He trails his mouth lower, dragging over her collarbone,then down to the rounded swell of her breasts. Her nipples pebble beneath the thin fabric, aching for his mouth. When he buries his face between them, breathing her in like he’s starving, she arches with a whimper.
“Fucking perfect,” he groans against her skin, voice raw. “The things I’d do to you if we weren’t hiding in the bushes.”
Mila bites her lip, drunk on the friction and heat, on the wrongness and thrill of being touched out here where anyone might walk by. She knows she should stop. But when his mouth brushes her skin again, and his thigh presses firmly between her legs, her body bucks against him like it’s made a decision her mind hasn’t caught up with.
She rocks against him, moaning when the pressure lights her up from the inside. Her fingers find the back of his neck, slip beneath the edge of his mask, and drag across his scalp. His hair is soft and slightly damp. She wants to lose herself in it.
He watches her, eyes gleaming beneath the mask, and something in him tightens. She sees it in his shoulders, the way he locks his jaw, like he’s barely holding himself back. The idea that he’s restraining himself makes her knees weak.
His hand comes up, firm over her mouth. “I need you quiet, Daisy,” he whispers, lips brushing the corner of her jaw. “We don’t want them finding us.”
He presses his body flush against hers, and she stops thinking altogether.
His masked face nestles against her temple, and he inhales deeply. The cool plastic grazes her flushed skin, the contrast making her breath hitch in her throat. She moans softly against his palm, rocking harder into his thigh, her body begging for friction, for more, for anything he will give her.
“Daisy,” he breathes into her ear, voice low and coaxing. “Can I touch you, my angel?”
Mila must have lost her damn mind, because she nods before she can think. Words abandon her, caught somewhere in her throat, but every nerve in her body is already screaming yes. She trembles, strung tight with want.
His hand trails down, slipping beneath her hem, the fabric sliding easily up her thighs. When his fingers find the soaked lace between her legs, he groans, pressing his forehead against the wooden wall as if to steady himself.
He yanks her panties to the side and slides a finger through her slickness, teasing her entrance before circling her clit with maddening precision. Her hips jerk forward, seeking more. Her mouth is still covered, her moan muffled but desperate.
“Do you like this, Daisy?” he whispers, voice laced with heat and amusement. “You like being touched in the dark, where no one can see you? You like being my dirty little secret?”
Her hips roll against his hand. Her eyes flutter closed. Every word turns the heat in her blood into fire.
His mouth is at her ear again, hoarse and commanding. “Sayyes, sir.”
He lifts his hand from her mouth to give her space to speak. His eyes are locked on hers. The black stage makeup smudged around them makes it hard to read their color, but Mila guesses brown.
Richard had never spoken to her like this. He’d been a hands first, words later kind of lover. Rough, fast, impersonal. No tension, no teasing, no space for her anticipation—just the assumption she’d follow. And she had. Back then.
This…this was different.
He is giving her room to react. To say yes. To want it aloud. And somehow, that makes this more dangerous, more intoxicating than anything she and Richard ever shared.
It takes effort, more than she expects, to get the words out. But she wants to say it. Needs to.
“Yes, sir,” she breathes.
The smile that curls over his mouth is wicked.
His fingers slide inside her, filling her with steady pressure while his thumb keeps working those perfect, slow circles. She cries out, and he silences her again with his palm, kissing her cheek as she writhes against him, lost in the heat and the rhythm.
He works her steadily, patiently, like he wants to see every inch of her unravel. Her body clenches around his fingers, hips moving in frantic little pulses as the tension builds.
