Page 9 of Atlanta Heat (Tempting SEALs 6)

Macey caught her arm as she turned away from him, holding her steady as her gaze flashed back to his. Wide, wary, her eyes glittered like emeralds and threatened to ensnare him in a web of arousal.

“I told you this wasn’t a good idea.” Her breath hitched as he curled his arm around her waist and pulled her to his body once more.

He couldn’t help it. He needed to feel her breasts against his chest again, needed the taste of her kiss going to his head like potent liquor.

“It’s the only idea.”

Her lips parted, whether to protest or meet his kiss he wasn’t certain, so he took the kiss.

It was late. Weariness was dragging at both of them, but he couldn’t help it; one more taste, one more touch, that was all he needed. His head lowered, his lips touching hers gently as he stared into her eyes. He didn’t take the kiss this time, he eased into it, eased her into it. He licked at her lips until they parted further. He nipped at the lower curve and felt her ragged breath of response, watched her lashes flutter as her hands clenched on his upper arms.

And he felt that tight clench in his heart again, the one that had warned him years ago that Emerson’s touch went deeper than flesh. Deeper than bone.

Macey could tell that she didn’t know whether to push him away or to pull him closer to her. Her breathing was harsh, irregular, those temptingly full breasts moving against his chest heavily. He wanted to fill his hands with them, feel her hard little nipples against his tongue again. He wanted to devour her.

“Macey, please …” A whisper-soft plea fell from her lips as he licked over them, her eyes dilating, the small ring of green darkening in arousal.

Macey cupped her cheek with one hand, his thumb relishing the feel of satiny flesh dewed with moisture. He could feel her burning, heating up for him.

“I want to touch you, Em.” He nipped at her lower lip. “I want to feel you silky and wet.” His hand moved from her cheek, down her neck, her shoulder. Going lower, he watched her eyes, her expression, each nuance of emotion that flickered over her face as he gripped the material of her skirt and drew it upward.

She trembled in his arms, a delicate little ripple of response that fanned the flames inside his own body higher. He was burning for her. Touching her was addictive; the more of her soft, sweet flesh that he touched, the more he wanted to touch. The more he needed to touch.

As the material of her skirt cleared her thighs, Macey watched Emerson’s lips tremble, part, fight to draw in air.

“Can I touch you, Emerson?” he whispered, his fingertips running along the elastic band of her panties as they curved around the cheek of her rear.

“Macey …” There was protest and hunger, fear and need resonating in the tone.

“Just a little touch,” he crooned, keeping his voice soft, cajoling.

Touching her meant everything. Touching her right now was as imperative as breathing.

He moved his hand around her thigh again, sliding his fingertips over the soft damp crotch of her panties.

“Emerson.” He groaned her name as his forehead rested against hers. “You’re wet.”

Her face flushed brighter as her hips jerked, pressing her silk-covered flesh more firmly against his fingers. She wanted, she needed, just as desperately as he did.

He moved his hand higher, slid his fingers into the low band of her panties, and a groan tore from his throat as his fingers feathered over damp curls. Sweet, heated dampness beaded on silky curls, drawing his touch, his hunger, as nothing else could have.

He couldn’t stop himself. He had to have more. He wanted to see her face, watch her eyes as he took more. And he did. His fingers slid into the narrow slit, parted sweetly swollen folds, and found the nectar of the gods.

“You’re hot.” He was burning alive in her heat. “Hot and sweet, Emerson.”

Hot and sweet. Emerson stared back at Macey, fighting to breathe, to make sense of the wild sensations tearing through her. She couldn’t find the strength to pull away from him this time. She felt weak, senseless, unable to process anything but the pleasure. The feel of his fingers sliding through her pussy, parting the sensitive lips, circling the entrance to her vagina.

She lifted closer, standing on her tiptoes, desperate to encourage his fingers to delve further, to slip inside her, to ease the tight knot of pressure building in her womb.

She needed to orgasm. Oh yeah, she needed that so bad. Just this once, in his arms, to know the culmination of this pleasure.

A finger slipped inside her. Calloused, firm, confident, it parted the tight muscles and sent her senses careening. Flames seared her nerve endings and she felt as though she was burning alive in his embrace, coming apart at each touch.

“This is going to be mine, Emerson,” he snarled, his finger thrusting inside her, sending waves of heat and violent pleasure through every cell of her body. “You’re going to be mine. You know you are.”

“Macey.” Her head tipped back as she fought the sensations. “You don’t understand …”

His fingers moved inside her, fracturing her senses. But nothing could cover the feel of something … something smooth twining around her ankle.

---