Page 78 of Carnal Urges

To him.

When the kiss finally ends and I return from outer space, I’m curled in his lap like a kitten, my legs thrown over one of his muscular thighs and my bound arms wound around his broad shoulders. His arms hold me tight as a vise.

I’m panting. Trembling. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive.

“So fucking sweet,” he says, breathing raggedly. “I want more of that sweet side. Give it to me.”

I whisper, “Okay.”

He takes my mouth again. I sink, then sink further until I’m completely lost, floating lazily on waves of delicious heat, as thick and sugary as cotton candy. He moans into my mouth, and I shudder.

He grasps my jaw and bites my lips. When I whimper, he slides his hand down to my neck. His big hand wraps almost all the way around it.

I might gasp. I might groan or shift against him. I’m not sure what I do, but it makes him even hotter, greedier, and ten times more intense.

“Look at me.”

My lids drift open. He stares down at me with eyes like fire.

“You’re my captive.”

I nod, my head fuzzy. He wants something, but I don’t know what it is. I can’t think. I can barely even breathe. I’ve got Red Bull and heroin scorching through my veins.

“You’re going to stay with me. And do what I tell you to do this time. And be good. Obedient.”

That makes me smile. I like him when he’s delusional.

“Say yes.”

“Yes. For tonight.”

“We’ll talk about timing later. Why are you only wearing one shoe?”

“It’s a long story.”

His mouth claims mine again, seeking, pulling, demanding. He kisses me like he’s on death row, about to be executed, and I’m his last meal. I’ve never been so savored. So devoured.

Or so turned on. I think if he even breathed on my nipple, I’d come.

But he doesn’t go anywhere near my breasts. He simply kisses me, over and over, all the way back to the city. Every once in a while, he stops to murmur something to me in Gaelic, his mouthpressed close to my ear so only I can hear. By the time we pull into the parking garage of his building, I’m out of my mind with need.

For the elevator ride to the top floor, I’m thrown over his shoulder again.

With any other man, being treated like luggage would make me crazy. I’d never accept it. I’d kick him in the face and make him lick my foot.

But there’s something incredibly hot about the way Declan’s big hand is splayed possessively over the back of my thigh, and how easily he can carry my weight, and how he didn’t ask permission to manhandle me. He just did. Like it wasn’t up to me. Like he’s calling all the shots from here on out, whether I like it or not.

God help me, I like it.

A lot.

The elevator doors slide open. He walks us inside his home. The automatic lights come on, illuminating our way down the corridor to the master bedroom. Neither of us speaks a word.

He flips me over and tosses me onto the bed. I bounce, breathless, and stare up at him with wide eyes, my heartbeat flying, my bound arms raised over my head.

He gazes down at me with a hard jaw and half-lidded eyes, working at the knot in his tie.

“You need food. And a shower.”