Page 17 of Clayton (Bourbon & Blood #2)

I’m so confused by what he’s telling me, I can’t even think straight.

Part of me wants to kiss him, to hold onto him as tight as I can because whatever he might believe and however stupid he might have been, he’s still the best man I’ve ever known.

Another part of me wants to knock him in the head for being such an idiot.

“Let me go.”

“Not if you’re going to hit me again,” he replies evenly. “I might deserve it but it’s been a hell of a day and I just don’t think I can take it.”

“I’m not going to hit you.” I won’t. I may want to, but I won’t. I’m going to attempt to be a rational adult.

He steps back, letting go of my hands and I turn to face him again. The way he’s looking at me makes me squirm a little. “What?”

Shaking his head, he answers, “You said that if I gave you the truth before you signed the papers, we were good. Is that still true?”

I don’t know. No, I do. But I’m not quite ready to say it yet. “Maybe. Probably. I’ve got to figure out if I can forgive you for being a dumbass man.”

“I was a dumbass man when you married me,” he points out.

“Slightly less dumb,” I retort. “And I was too young and stupid to know it wasn’t going to get any better.”

He reaches for me, and this time when he takes my hand, it’s not to keep me from hitting him.

Instead, he presses my hand to his chest. I can feel the heat of him, the firm muscle beneath fabric and the steady thump of his heartbeat.

“How about we both act young and dumb tonight? No promises. No talk of how things are going to play out. The future can work itself out…tonight, let’s just do what feels good. ”

God, it’s tempting. Like chocolate cake during PMS tempting. But I’m still hesitant. Scared, even. I can’t let go of him again. The first time nearly broke me. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Doesn’t have to be a good idea,” he replies, and his hand has encircled my wrist, his thumb drawing lazy circles on sensitive skin until I shiver. “Just has to feel good. Tell me you don’t want it…that you don’t need it just as bad I do?”

I’m caving. Giving in even though I know I shouldn’t.

Yes, he’s given me the truth, but that doesn’t make everything just go away.

There are issues to be talked about, decisions to be made.

But for the night, I just want to let all that ride.

I want him to make me forget how lonely I’ve felt for the last twelve months.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I whisper. I hate how breathless I sound, how needy and how fucking horny I so obviously sound. I’m either asthmatic or auditioning to do voice overs in porn.

He steps back. “I’ll meet you in my old room. I’ve got to put all this stuff somewhere safe.”

I watch him carry the box upstairs. Standing behind him, I take just a moment to enjoy the play of muscle, of long legs and a tight, firm ass.

My mind is drifting to what it feels like to cup that perfect ass in my hands while he’s driving into me.

Yes, I am too fucking horny to make good decisions.

My emotions might be mixed up and all over the place, but my physiology is pushing me in one very solid direction.

Listen to your body. That’s the advice they give in every yoga class I’ve ever been to. Somehow, I don’t think this is what they had in mind. Of course, they’ve never had the pleasure of having Clayton Darcy in their beds and I have. That man could tempt a saint .

Climbing the stairs, I make my way to Clayton’s old room. Luckily, it’s not an homage to his childhood. He’d moved back home for a while after Patricia’s accident and had given it the adult makeover. The bed is small, a full-size, but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for us.

I hear his footsteps in the hall. I reach for the hem of my shirt and tug it up and over my head. As he walks through the door, I toss it to him. He looks down in confusion for a second, then smiles before looking up at me.

If I’d had more time to plan, I’d be wearing sexier lingerie. But the way he’s looking at me, it doesn’t matter. My body responds instantly, my nipples hardening into taut points. The anticipation of having his hands on me, his mouth, it’s too much. I can feel the wetness between my thighs.

Before I can say anything, he’s already across the room and his arms are around me. He pulls me in close, his hands cupping my face. I love when he touches me this way. It makes me feel special…it makes me feel desired.

He kisses me and everything just falls away. All the hurt, the anger, the lingering doubts. I still think he fucked up, but the bottom line is I just don’t care. He came back to me. He kept his promise.

His mouth is on mine. He’s sucking and nipping at my lower lip until I moan. That moan is all the invitation he needs. His tongue slips inside, thrusting boldly into my mouth, mimicking what I know will come later. I press myself against him, eager for more, urging him on.

He doesn’t seem to be in any great hurry.

Sometimes that’s a good thing, but after a year of having nothing between my thighs that wasn’t battery operated, I’m a little impatient.

I grasp the front placket of his shirt and pull.

Buttons skitter, popping off and rolling over the floor to disappear between the furniture.

“What’s the hurry?” he asks with a soft laugh.

If I don’t say something outrageous, if I don’t do something that makes him completely lose control, he will drag his feet and torture me like this all night.

“I can’t wait, Clayton. I want your cock inside me.” I don’t know that I’ve ever, in the twelve years I’ve known him, said anything quite that crude to him. But it works. His eyes darken, the tension in him shifts into something darker. He’s not holding back now.

He picks me up and spins me around until my back is pressed against the door.

His hands are at my waist, unsnapping my jeans and lowering the zipper.

But he doesn’t push them off my hips, instead he just slips his hand inside, his fingers moving over the lace that is the only barrier between us.

When his fingers slip beneath my panties, moving over bare skin, I can’t hold back the moan.

“Clayton, just touch me…for the love of God, don’t make me wait.”

I don’t have to ask him again. His hand dips lower, two fingers sliding inside me while his thumb brushes against my clit.

My head falls back and I can’t catch my breath.

He’s holding me there, my weight supported by his thighs, my legs draped over his, and he’s driving me insane with just that touch.

The need is like a living thing inside me, clawing and wild.

“You feel so good,” he whispers hotly. “I can’t wait to be inside you, to feel you closing around me. But first, I want to make you come. I want to make you remember just how good I can make you feel.”

I can’t respond. I can’t even think. He knows just how to touch me to make me wild. I’m clutching at his shoulders, my nails sinking into his flesh as he takes me higher. I let out a broken sob that might have been a plea, or just some unintelligible muttering of his name. But abruptly, he stops.

I cry out in protest, but it’s cut short as he turns and drops me on the bed.

It bounces under me, but my focus is on him and the way he grabs my jeans and strips them off me.

I part my thighs, instinctively welcoming him.

His hands slide under me, around my thighs and he pulls me toward him, dipping his head to press a hot kiss against my inner thigh.

Then he bites, his teeth scraping over my skin in a way that makes me shiver and moan.

“Clayton, you’re killing me! Please!”

I don’t care that I’m begging. I’ll plead. I’ll cry. I’ll do whatever it takes to escape this knife edge of need.