Page 60 of Blood & Throttle

And fuck, so do I.

“Bra,” he says, voice rough.

I meet his gaze, watching the way his jaw tightens, the hunger in his eyes barely restrained. Slowly—so fucking slowly—I reach behind me, fingers brushing over the clasp like I’ve got all the time in the world. I don’t take my eyes off him as I pop it open, the lace slipping down my arms before I toss it carelessly to the floor.

“Try not to pass out,” I murmur, smug as hell.

His nostrils flare and his gaze drops.

And I swear—if looks could touch, I’d already be on my knees.

I cross the small space between us, hips swaying with every step, until I’m standing between his knees. Then, with zero hesitation, I climb onto his lap—knees bracketing histhighs, chest bare, skin prickling from the heat radiating off him.

His hands find my hips instantly, fingers flexing like he’s caught between restraint and instinct. I slide my arms around his neck, arching slightly, letting every inch of me press into him—warm skin to tattooed heat.

I grind once, slow and deep.

His breath catches.

My lips ghost over his, just a whisper of contact, just enough to make him feel how close I am without giving him anything real.

“What’s it gonna be?” I breathe, my voice low, soaked in heat and challenge. “What are you gonna use that wild card for, Riot?”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Not with that usual cocky smirk or some sarcastic comeback.

He just stares at me.

His hand shoots up, fingers twisting into my hair as he yanks my head back, forcing my gaze to meet his. His eyes are lit up, feral and wild, so full of heat it steals the breath from my lungs. There’s something primal in them, something unspoken and hungry, and for a second, neither of us breathes.

Then he kisses me.

Hard. Rough. Like he’s been waiting for this moment and finally gave himself permission to take it. His mouth crashes over mine, lips claiming, tongue fierce, and it wrecks me in a way I didn’t know I could be wrecked. My moan slips free, unbidden and needy, as I roll my hips against his, desperate for more friction, more of him.

His grip in my hair tightens, anchoring me to him as the other hand slides down my back and palms my ass, grinding me against the hard length pressing between us. I feel the heat ofhis skin, the tension in his muscles, the control he’s barely clinging to as I move against him.

I’m dizzy from it—this kiss, this pressure, this fire that won’t stop climbing.

His mouth moves like he owns mine, like he’s staking a claim with every bruising pull and punishing slide of his tongue. It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle.

It’s everything I’ve come to expect from Riot Carter.

And just when I think he’s going to let go, finally give in and burn with me, he breaks the kiss.

His hand slides from my hair, tracing down the curve of my neck, over my spine, until both of them are on my ass—firm, commanding, like he owns the grip he’s got. And then, without a word, he stands. Lifts me with him like I weigh nothing, like I’m not half-naked and trembling in his arms.

I don’t fight it.

Of course he’s putting me on the bed. Where else would he put me? Riot Carter needs to be in control, and if we’re doing this—if he’s going to finally ruin me the way I know we both want—then yeah, the cot’s exactly where he’d want me.

I’m already bracing for it. Ready.

But instead of crawling on top of me, he just… walks away. Back toward the chair and away from me.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, voice sharp. “You can’t be serious.”

He grabs his shirt off the chair, not even looking at me when he tosses it aside again. “Go to sleep.”

“Sleep?” I snap, pushing up onto my elbows. “You just kissed me like you wanted to fuck the soul out of me and now you want me to sleep?”