Page 112 of Resurrection
I’ve always been curious about where she lives and how she builds her world. This place? It screams Naomi Medina: unassuming yet pristine and cozy, or at least, from what I can see on the outside.
She shuts off the engine and climbs out first.
I follow.
On the steps leading up to the front door, I draw her to me, press myself up against her, unable to wait, and kiss her silly, like I need her to breathe. And maybe I do.
"Come on, Ty." She pushes me back slightly. "I don’t want my neighbors to talk."
"I don’t care."
"I do. I don’t need TMZ harassing me at my place of work tomorrow because someone recognized you."
"You think someone’s stalking your place at this hour?" I laugh a little.
"You never know." She moves to open the door while I hug her from behind. Her hands tremble when she tries to slip the key into the keyhole. That’s how I know she’s nervous.
I press another kiss to the back of her neck. She shivers. The door finally gives in, and we step inside.
Here, under the cover of complete darkness, it feels different. Safe and secure but also substantial.
The sound of the door shutting behind us is like a punctuation mark at the end of a very long sentence.
Our lips collide again, a fast-moving train with no plans to slow down. Her place blurs around us—intimate, eclectic, as wild and lovely as she is.
She backs me against the wall, brushes her index finger over my jaw, and says, "Tonight, I’m in charge, Ty."
Hell, she’s always been in charge. "Yes, ma’am," I choke out. My cock swells in my jeans, and there's a roaring current of lust rushing beneath my skin, drowning out the last of my common sense.
Before I can process what's happening to me, she takes my hand and pulls me down the dark hallway, then into the bedroom. The curtains on the windows are closed only halfway, and there’s moonlight streaming in and painting the floor and the furniture silver.
Without further ado, Naomi steps closer and goes for my T-shirt, then pulls it up and over my head. She doesn't hesitate even for a second. That's the Naomi Medina I remember from high school. Decisive, fierce, straightforward. No games.
A few seconds tick by as we stare at each other.
"You're so bad, Ty," she coos, cupping my aching cock through the rough fabric of my jeans. There's smirk on her lips I rarely see. It's almost evil.
"You expect me to be good in this situation?" I ask, gesticulating wildly just to give my hands something to do.
She stretches up on her tiptoes to bring her face level with mine. Her breath fans over my cheeks as she murmurs, "You've never been good, Ty."
"Guilty."
She reaches for my fly, lowering it. Then she shoves my jeans down.
I lose my cool. My need to have her here and now is beyond simple temptation. It's almost like an animalistic reflex now, after I had a taste of her. I yanksat her dress, pushing the straps off her shoulders. With a single move of her hand, she unties the sash keeping the dress in place around her waist and the fabric loosens, then slips to the floor and pools around her feet.
I take a moment to drink her in—all the seductive curves and the dark lace of her bra and panties.
My cock jerks at the sight of the tight, barely hidden nipples.
I push my jeans all the way down along with my boxers.
The rest of our clothes scatter like my unfinished songs. We’re both naked before we know it.
My heart is a chaotic chorus, pounding loud enough to drown out the world. We're the only thing that matters, raw and urgent and impossibly alive.
Naomi doesn't waste any time. She shoves me onto the bed, her mouth hot and insistent on mine. Her hands roam over my body, touching the skin, tracing the ink designs, teasing my aching cock.
