Page 68 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

His heart thumped fast. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Snatching up his jeans, he shoved in one leg and then the other. Being beside her naked would only be asking for more trouble than he was already in. Jesus, he couldn’t even tuck his dick into his jeans without ropes of pleasure unfurling through his body.

It took him forever to zip up his fly. His hands shook, for fuck’s sake.

Jesus bloody Christ, Sullivan. Get a grip.

Monet waited. Silent.

Six steps later—she counted them in an attempt to calm his charged state—he stood at the easel and let out a long, ragged breath.

“Damn, Monet.” He stared at the drawing before him, his image captured with such powerful, confident strokes he was at a loss for what to say. “That’s incredible.”

“Thank you.”

Heart wild in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, he turned to her.

She was studying her work, an expression of revelation lighting up her face. “I was wrong,” she said suddenly, her voice hushed. “It’s not your accent, it’s your grin.”

“What’s my grin?”

“Whatgetsme so much about you. I thought it was your accent but it’s your grin. It’s the sexiest, most infectious, most honest smile I’ve ever?—”

He kissed her before she could finish. He simply had no hope of stopping himself.

No fucking hope at all.

His mouth laid claim to her lips with savage greed. He buried his hands in her hair, held her head still and plundered her mouth with his tongue. He nipped at her bottom lip, flicked at her teeth. When she whimpered, unable to keep the wanton sound silent, he kissed her with greater ferocity.

It was as if he was branding her with his kiss. Staking claim.

She melted against his body and surrendered to his possession.

His kiss.

When he pulled away from her, she let out a cry, dismay tearing through her pleasure.

“Shh, love,” he murmured, a second before he hooked his fingers under the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it up over her head.

“Oh god. Is this…should we…”

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He cupped her breasts with his hands, his stare devouring her exposed flesh as he drew the pads of his thumbs over her taut nipples. “So gorgeous.”

“Dylan!” She reached for his fly, needing to feel the pleasure in his body that she saw in his eyes. “I want?—”

He shook his head. “Not yet, love. In a moment.” Without warning, he scooped her off her feet, carried her to the sofa and lowered her to its cushioned seat. “I want to worship your body with my mouth and tongue first.”

And with that, he kneeled over Monet and captured her right nipple with his mouth. One hand cupped and squeezed the pleasure-heavy swell of her breast, the other smoothed down her rib cage, over her hip to her thigh. He tugged her leg upward, off the sofa, wrapping it around his hip as he settled between her spread thighs. Something long and thick and hard nudged at her folds and Monet gasped, knowing it was his erection, still contained by his jeans.

Oh God, I should…Dylan…stop…Annie…

The unhinged thought had barely finished whispering through her mind when Dylan’s mouth left her breast, scoring across the skin of her chest to lay claim to her other breast. He suckled hard on her nipple, his hand finding her abandoned breast and kneading with increasing pace. His cock jerked in his jeans and he pressed it against her sodden sex. She didn’t need to swipe her fingers over her pussy to know her juices slicked her folds. She’d never been so aroused. So ready to be fucked.

“Want…” The word tore from her throat in a choked cry. “Want you inside me.”

Dylan hummed against her flesh. “Not yet, love.” He sucked on her nipple again, mimicking his mouth’s rhythm on her other breast with pinching fingers. She moaned, pulling him closer to her heat with her leg.

Or trying to. He wouldn’t let her. Instead, he slid down her body, his mouth charting a path down the center of her belly to her navel. He lingered there, his tongue dipping into the shallow well, sending tickling waves of pleasure radiating out from the point of contact.

She closed her eyes, trying not to giggle. Giggling simply wasn’t done in such heightened moments of forbidden pleasure, and that’s what this was—forbidden. Dylan wasn’t hers and what they were doing shouldn’t be happening. But the way his tongue explored her bellybutton, the teasing flick it delivered to her sensitive flesh…it was deliciously wonderful. It tickled and there was nothing she could do but laugh.