Page 70 of Full Out Fiend

I pull him closer and open myself to him. Our kisses turn frantic, the heat between us so far beyond boiling that I don’t know how we’ll stop kissing long enough to take things further.

Not that we even need to. He’s dominating me, skimming his hands over my body and caressing his tongue against mine. These touches alone could send me over the edge toward an orgasm.

“Take your clothes off,” he demands, sinking his teeth into my bottom lip until I moan. I’m so desperate and greedy I can’t even manage to sass back. “I need to see you now that you’re mine.”

The way he says it makes my bones go soft. It’s not a request—it’s aneed.

I shimmy out of my sleep shorts, then press a hand against his chest, encouraging him to step back. When I pull my tank top over my head, his breath hitches.

“Mine.”

His hands are back on me before my shirt even flutters to the floor.

“Look at you,” he praises as he strokes and explores, his eyes shining with reverence. His gaze drops to my midsection, his expression dancing between lust and wonder. “Look at what we made.”

In any other circumstance, with any other person, I would cower under this type of assessment.

Although a blush creeps onto my cheeks, it’s motivated by desire, not insecurity. I blossom under his adoration. I want him to see me. Fielding has never once made me wonder if he’s attracted to me. It didn’t even cross my mind to be self-conscious about my fuller breasts, darker nipples, or the fresh, angry stretch lines creeping their way across my lower stomach and hips.

“If anything hurts or doesn’t feel as good as it should—”

“I’ll tell you,” I insist before he even has a chance to finish. “But I’m still me. And I’m horny as hell. Don’t you dare go easy on me or treat me differently. You know exactly how I like it. You know what I want.”

He considers me for a beat, then another.

“This is what you want?” he teases, pulling his belt out of the loops with a salacious smile that tells me we are on theexactsame page.

“You’rewhat I want,” I clarify, biting my lower lip as he unbuttons his jeans and shoves his pants and boxers to the ground.

Enough moonlight illuminates the room to create a luminescent halo around his form. From the cut of his jaw to the curve of his shoulders—from the planes of his chest to the veins of his forearms—he is all man. And now he’s all mine.

He lets me drink him in as he stands before me, his erection solid and heavy between his thighs. I swear I can hear myself panting. My cheeks hurt from grinning so hard.

After several seconds, he smirks, cocking one eyebrow in question.

“Are you done?” he teases, taking one tentative step forward, then another.

He comes to stand between my open legs at the edge of the bed, the tension between us tighter than an over-tuned guitar string.

I place my fingertips on his lower abs, smoothing down the hard, indented valleys of his hips. Biting my lip, I peer up at him through my lashes.

“Honestly? I’m just getting started.”

Anticipation crackles between us. We both know what comes next. For as much as I’ve hated the last month of not allowing myself to touch, to taste, to give in to the pull we both felt so many damn times, I’m in no rush now.

I use my tongue to trace a line over the prominent veins on his hip. He groans on contact, spurring me on. I can’t help it. I want more.

Nipping and tasting and teasing, I kiss his thighs and cup his balls with one hand while intentionally ignoring his cock.

“Angel…” he murmurs, breathless, weaving a hand into my hair.

I slide off the bed and lower to my knees.

“All those orgasms that first night together,” I muse, finally gripping the base of his dick. “And I never once got to taste you.”

I wrap my lips around the head of his cock, loving the way he hisses and nearly loses his balance. He catches himself on the bed, then braces his arms on the mattress.

I hollow my cheeks and suck, lavishing him with the same intensity he has bestowed on me each and every time we’ve been together.