Page 57 of Killaney Blood
His hands roam. His mouth devours.
He pulls my hair back, forcing me to look at him.
"Tell me to stop," he says. "Tell me that for the past two weeks, you haven't thought about me. About doing this."
My heart pounds hard in my chest. I open my mouth to lie, to tell him I haven't given him a second thought, but as soon as I go to say no, my body won't let me speak. The words die in my throat and never make it past my lips.
Instead, I grab the back of his neck and pull him down to me, kissing him with everything I've been holding in.
I climb on top of him, and we knock over my medical bag. Supplies spill out: gauze, bandages, antiseptic.
I don't care. I grind into him, feeling the bulge under his boxer briefs.
He responds immediately, one hand sliding under my shirt to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. Sparks of pleasure shoot through me.
"Fuck, Lyra," he groans against my mouth as he pulls my shirt up and over my head.
I arch into his touch as his tongue slides over my breasts, kissing, sucking, licking. The sensation sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
His hands roam my body like he's trying to memorize every inch. There's something desperate in the way he touches me, not just lust, but possession. Like he's claiming territory.
I feel his body, the heat of his skin, the way his muscles flex beneath my fingertips. It's been so long since anyone touched me this way. Since I allowed anyone to touch me this way.
He sucks on my nipple so hard I moan. He then reaches down and grabs the gauze roll that spilled from my medic bag. He yanks a strip free and loops it around one of my wrists.
"What are you doing?" I ask, as my dream seems to be coming true.
His mouth brushes my ear. "Being creative."
He binds my wrists together, fast, aggressive, then tosses me to the side, my back hitting the cushion.
He climbs on top of me and lifts my hands above my head again and pins them with one hand.
"You're mine tonight."
His grip tightens around my wrists, and I feel my pulse throb against his fingers. The pressure sends electricity through me, awakening nerves I'd forgotten existed.
"You've been driving me fucking crazy," he says against my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Every time you look at me with those eyes, telling me to go to hell while your body begs me to stay."
I turn my head and find his lips. "What are you going to do now?" I ask, feeling his hardness against my thigh.
"Claim you."
He kisses me and I grind into him. I fight to move my hands, but he won't let me. I've never wanted to stroke a cock so bad in my life. I just want to feel him in every way I can.
I lose myself. My past, my trauma, my mind — everything goes and it's like I'm floating above myself. The pure ecstasy I'm feeling is almost overwhelming, too much for me to comprehend.
Is this how men are meant to make women feel? Because, holy shit, I could get used to this.
His tongue slides down my neck to my breasts, and a fire trail of kisses goes along my ribs. He kisses my stomach and moves lower. My wetness intensifies.
He yanks my underwear down in one swift motion, leaving me bare beneath him. I don't even feel the cool air, just take in the way he looks at me, like I'm prey he's finally caught.
He kisses my hipbone, then lower.
His tongue drags up my center, slow and punishing, and I cry out.
He doesn't give me a second to breathe.
