Page 35 of Glimmer and Burn (Unity #1)

She was practically purring in his hands, and while he had not intended to kiss her again so quickly—he had anticipation to build, a mood to craft—he also could not resist a moment longer.

For now, she was content to let him lead, allowing the slow, languid tease of his tongue, delving to meet hers in a sinfully controlled dance.

Miranda moaned, a low guttural sound and his concentration slipped. His fingers fumbled and he advanced on the space between them, nearly bending her backward as his blood roared to take her.

Willpower ready to snap, he managed to resume removing her uniform.

It had never been difficult managing his reactions to his partner.

A moan, a sigh, a gasp—they were tools to let him know when he should linger or move on, if she preferred his lips or the pressure of a fingertip, all part of the arousing puzzle that he needed to solve.

Miranda was a puzzle he’d been desperate to work out for far too long—how could it have only been mere days ?

—and each piece he unlocked kept hitting him like a brick.

Miranda’s every note of satisfaction cracked his careful control all too easily. His breathing turned uneven. What was it about her that continued to unravel everything he knew?

He tore his lips from hers, skating over her jaw—always lifted in maddening defiance—down to her neck as he worked her arms from her uniform. His hands hit something hard when he reached her hips and he paused.

“A knife. There’s…seven.” She pulled away a fraction as she slipped knives from her person, tossing them aside with a resounding clatter. Her arms were free of the leather uniform, her breasts covered in only the thin material of her chemise.

She let the last knife dangle from her fingertips and then drop. Her eyes boldly met his. Another thread of control tore and he caught her around the waist roughly and stripped away the rest of her uniform.

Her gasp and quiet whisper of, “Yes,” echoed in his thoughts.

Yes. Yes. Yes. He had to feel her skin, to feel every part of her or he’d go mad.

Miranda’s head was thrown back, her body blessedly liquid and willing. When his tongue raked over the dip above her clavicle, she latched onto his bicep and her body arched into him.

There .

He adopted a more rugged pace, fueled by her body’s every signal that it was what she wanted.

She wanted his teeth and rough hands and aggression.

She bit her lip and groaned as he ripped the last thin barrier of her chemise down and let it fall.

Clenched her thighs when he squeezed, fingertips leaving imprints in her skin. Bruising.

Miranda did not like gentle.

“Yes,” she breathed again, her hands pressing up the length of his chest.

He paused, set his forehead against the warmth of her neck, not wanting to discourage her, but not sure how to keep from breaking something as her fingers began unhooking the buttons on his vest and pushing it over his shoulders. Then she started on his shirt.

He let her undress him while he breathed in the lilac on her skin and focused intently on remaining still. When her hands reached his pants, he stopped her. If she started undoing the ties, he would not last.

“Patience, Mira,” he rasped, hoping his desperation wasn’t glaring. His hand halted any protest, teasing and caressing her freshly exposed breasts, careful to give equal attention to each firm nipple grazing his palm. She was liquid again, lost in his touch.

He attempted to ease her onto her back, opting for the table over the cot—it was higher and provided a better angle—when she reflexively adjusted her stance to switch their positions.

He was almost caught off guard again. But he was prepared now, overcorrecting her maneuver and tossing her onto the table before she could stop him.

When she seemed about to protest, he drew his mouth over her breast, now at a better vantage to reach, and any argument she had died in a choked moan.

Though his mouth never stopped, his hands hesitated again. He set them on her knees, drawing slow circles on her skin. He wanted to tease and draw out the moment, but that is not what had him stalling.

He was nervous. Afraid that his control might snap to the sheer want to have her. His control was precarious as it stood.

Swallowing down the hesitation, he let his hands move up her thigh. Her back stiffened, noting his intent, but she did not try to stop him. No, her hands were working his hair into a lather as she moved his head over her breasts, forcing his mouth exactly where she wanted it.

Driving him absolutely insane.

He did not want to plow into her with his fingers and scare her, not for her first time, but each clench of her nails in his scalp, each time she forced his head to the right or left, his need swelled all the harder and he ached to be inside her, even if he had to settle for his fingers at the moment.

His breathing grew stuttered, hands clenching and unclenching against her inner thigh. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up making her giggle rather than come.

Pull yourself together.

She’s just a woman. And you know what women like. Give it to her.

He drew his right hand down the heated, saturated center of her pleasure.

Oh shit.

Forced to remove his mouth from her breasts and break her hold so he could get some air, Devin undid the top laces of his pants and eased some of the pressure.

If this continued, he’d finish well before they got started.

But fuck, he had not expected how much the evidence of her want could unravel him, how just the lingering scent of her arousal on his fingers had him fighting to keep from touching himself .

“What? Did I do something wrong? Is…am I not—” He halted her words with a gesture of his raised hand—the one not occupied. Hardly tactful, but right then he was seconds from going feral.

“You are perfect,” he managed, though he had to breathe through the words, focused on quieting the voice urging him to push her down, let his pants fall, and take .

His hands rested on her thighs, both to hold him upright and to assure her.

Divine above, he’d never struggled so much with wanting someone.

She was like a holy being designed for his distinct torment.

He looked into her eyes, the green still darkened by lust, but also so earnest and enchanting.

“It is agony to temper my desire for you,” he said, lifting a hand to run his knuckles along her jawline, “Divine torture.”

Before he could understand why, his pulse raced. Thoughts spiraled. His hands grasped at his hair, the ends so distressed by her vice grip that they stood on end. Shoulders moving with the weight of his breath. Practically frantic. Gaze shifting to stare into the darkness over her shoulder.

And I have no fucking clue how I’m ever going to recover from you. If I can ever go back to before or if you have ruined me forever.

He felt her move, but did not look.

He dared not look at her, naked and wet for him .

How was he supposed to perform when reality was nonsense? When Devin Drake was undone by green eyes and the mere suggestion of arousal?

She scooted forward, enough to lock her arms around his back. An embrace. A hug?

His breathing relaxed, but his pulse continued to race.

“So,” her voice came light as a feather, bright as a sun in the darkness, “You’re saying I’m pretty good at this?”

Devin looked into her eyes, aghast. Floored.

She was smiling. She was dazzling.

Gods above, was he swooning?

She reached up with her head to kiss him, gently.

He leaned into her, tethered by the push and pull of her lips.

Devin actively worked against sentiment in his pursuits.

Resisted affection with every fiber of his being, yet now that it was being offered by Miranda he couldn’t muster a shred of resistance.

There was no calculation in the kiss, no focus on her pleasure or his.

He drew his fingers along her cheek, a kiss from the happily-ever-after in a fairy tale that exposed some new, raw piece of him buried so deep it might never have existed at all.

Then her fingers teased at his waist, dipping suddenly so her capable fingers drew down the length of his cock.

Holy hell.

“Mira,” he started, but she grasped him through his pants and his every muscle tensed.

“I’m not sure what to do but,” she licked at his jawline, “Seems to be working.”

He clenched his teeth, shaking his head.

Yes, it was more than working. “You were not supposed…” His head fell against her shoulder, fist clenched on the table.

Her fingers traced and explored, not in any discernable pattern, but it was doing the job well enough.

He was getting much too close to finishing than he liked, not when he’d barely started on her .

If she was going to turn this into a power struggle, he was not going to lose easily. And there was one thing he craved almost more than her teasing, probing touch.

Her thighs squeezed when his hand returned to the warmth between her legs.

He wasn’t playing fair. As good as her amateur exploration felt, he knew what he was doing, parting her with intentional circles massaging just above where he longed to sink his fingers.

Her grip faltered and he seized the opportunity to ease her back, body splayed across the table.

Free of her touch, he did take a moment to admire the view before dropping his mouth to the taut muscles of her stomach, working his way down.

Miranda’s body locked again. Devin glanced up to see her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. He grinned into each kiss over her hip. While he intended to gently guide her legs further apart, she’d parted her thighs on her own, as if she wanted this as much as he did. This was a victory he savored.