Page 142 of Just One Look

It was all thatbody.

She pulled away from him, and he thought,No. No.He was reaching for her, and she was sitting down on the stairs. On the second riser, and, when he got closer, pulling him into her, her hand tucked into the top of his trousers.

Shit.

She had her hand on his belt buckle, was looking up at him from down there at waist level, her hair loose around her face and falling over one eye, and saying, “Take off your jacket.”

He did. It fell to the ground, and he didn’t care. She didn’t smile, because he was getting the warrior queen when she told him, “Now take off your shirt.”

He undid the top buttons. She pulled the tails out of his waistband, not going fast. Going slow. She unfastened buttons from the bottom up, and then she was pulling him forward by the hips and pressing her mouth to his belly. He looked down and watched her do it, his hands in her hair again, because that was where his hands belonged.

She pulled the tongue of leather through his belt buckle. And then she pulled it free.

He got rid of his shoes and socks, and she watched him do that, too. She unfastened the cuffs of his shirt, though, and pulled it off him. After that? She pulled his zip down, slow as sin, got rid of his trousers and black boxer briefs, looked up at him again, and said, “You can pull my hair.”

He had no words left. He was wrecked already. And then she went to work on him, and he was shaking. He was groaning. He was grabbing her by the hair, and then he was pressing a forearm into the wall, because he wasn’t steady on his feet anymore.

He was meant to be in charge of this. That had been the idea. Instead, she was doing it fast and hard, and he was groaning out her name. His fist was beating against the wall, and he was yanking at her hair, pulling her head back, needing more. Needing it all. Trying to let her know. Losing his words. Losing his mind.

She kept it up until the end. She drank him down like she wanted it. She licked him clean like he was delicious.

* * *

All he’d done was kissher a little and touch her less than that, and she was soaking wet anyway. It was what she’d done to him. She was drunk on her power, so satisfied, and not satisfied one bit. Everything in her wanting to pull him closer, to make him satisfy that need. But he was leaning into the wall, breathing hard, her hair still wrapped around his hand, his palm cupping the back of her head.

She waited for him.

Two or three minutes, and his breath was coming easier. He pushed off the wall, got both hands on her face, tipped her head up farther, and said, “You’re hot as hell.”

She wanted to say, “Really?” She wanted to say, “Thank you.” Instead, she said, “What are you going to do about it?” And didn’t smile. He could do the dark and dangerous thing. So, it seemed, could she. “Come on, Luka,” she said. “Show me what you’ve got.”

* * *

He told her, “Wait.”

“What, here?”

“Yeh. Right here. Wait for me.”

“Uh, Luka? I’m on the stairs.” Still in her lingerie. Pale-pink and so pretty in front, and a whole dirty-sweet party in the back.

He had a fair idea which way she was going to be facing tonight.

He said, “Did I tell you to talk?” And got a shudder from her that rolled all the way through her body.

Coming back downstairs again five minutes later with a basket of supplies, setting it down while she stared at it, then pulling her wrists together in front of her and wrapping the silk rope around them. Three, four, five times, so she wouldn’t get a burn. And when it was done, taking her head in his hands and kissing her, going deep, using her mouth again, and tasting himself on her. She didn’t hold him, because she couldn’t, and the desire was pulsing so deep inside him.

He wasn’t ready to fuck her yet, because she’d done too good a job. He was ready to do everything else, though.

He’d left a piece of rope dangling, and now, he led her into the bathroom by it. He was a sick bastard, no doubt about it, but her pupils were dilated to hell and gone, and there was a reason she’d bought that lingerie. She wanted to be thrilled? He’d thrill her. She wanted to be pushed? He’d push her.

Into the guest bath. Taking her by the hips and boosting her up onto the benchtop. When her arse hit the stone, she jumped, and he said, “Yeh. That’s cold, isn’t it? But you like it cold.” He kissed her some more, because there she was, held her face again, and said, “This time, you’re the one who needs a safe word. And a promise.” His hand was gentle on her, and his heart, somehow, was aching. “That I won’t do anything to you that you don’t want. Ever. That anytime you want me to let you go, I will.”

She said, “All right,” but she still looked more than just excited. She looked scared, too.

“Elle. No.” He kissed her again. Gently, now. “We’re playing, and that’s all. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She rested her forehead against his, breathed a moment, then said, “It hurts to love you.”