Page 40 of Panther in the Shadows
His teeth catch my lower lip. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make me gasp, and he uses the opening to deepen the kiss. Tongue sliding against mine in slow, deliberate strokes that mimic what we both know is coming. What we both want.
The taste of him floods my senses. Coffee and something darker. Something that tastes like midnight and power barely leashed. His body radiates heat that seeps through my clothes, into my skin. Everywhere we touch burns. My breasts pressed against his chest. His thigh between mine. The hard length of him against my hip.
One of his hands slides into my hair. Fists. Pulls just enough to angle my head back, exposing my throat. His mouth traces the line of my jaw. Teeth scraping sensitive skin. Each touch sends electricity straight to my core.
When the kiss finally breaks, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, amber reduced to thin rings. The bulge pressed against my hip tells me exactly how affected he is.
"Last chance to change your mind." His forehead rests against mine. "Because once this starts, I'm not stopping."
"Then don't stop."
His pupils dilate. The amber darkens to near-black. He backs me toward the desk with purposeful steps. My thighs hit the edge. Papers crinkle beneath me as he lifts me onto the surface.
His mouth finds my throat. Teeth scraping across sensitive skin. The gasp tears from me before I can stop it. Head falling back. His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my ribs.
"Tell me if I'm too rough." The words rumble against my neck. "Tell me if you want me to slow down."
"Don't you dare."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Reads permission there. Then his hands are dragging my shirt over my head. Tossing it aside. His gaze drops to my chest, covered only by lace.
"Not what I expected." His thumb brushes across my nipple through the fabric. The arch comes involuntary.
"What did you expect?"
"Something fancier. Silk." He unhooks the clasp with practiced ease. "But this is better. Real."
Cool air hits my skin. Then his mouth follows. Hot and demanding and exactly what I need. His teeth close on my nipple just hard enough to make me gasp. His hand cups my other breast, thumb and finger rolling and pinching until pleasure borders on pain.
My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. "Off. Get this off."
He complies. Strips the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Smooth olive skin stretched over lean muscle. Scars from knives and claws and things that wanted him dead. The shadow-walker gift makes him naturally more cut than bulk. All predator grace and lethal efficiency.
My hands explore. Tracing the planes of his chest. His heart hammers under my palm. A particularly nasty scar cuts across his ribs.
"Knife fight in Barcelona." His voice comes rougher now. "Lost but survived."
"Seems to be a theme with you."
"Surviving's what I do."
The scar tastes like salt when I kiss it. Then another. Then the hollow of his throat. He groans, fingers threading through my hair.
"Moira."
"Yes?"
"I need you to understand something." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "I'm not gentle. Not really. And right now, after tonight, after everything, I need?—"
"To take control." I finish for him. "To have something you can actually control for once. I know. I need the same thing. So take it. I can handle it."
His jaw tightens. Nostrils flare. He catches both my wrists in one hand. Pins them above my head against the desk. The position arches my back, pressing my bare breasts against his chest.
"You tell me if it's too much." Not a request. An order. "Promise me."
"I promise."
His free hand slides down my body. Tracing ribs. Waist. Hip. Fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants. "Lift up."
