Page 3 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

DICKNOTIZED AND PROUD

MERIT

S hould I have gone to a second location with a stranger? Probably not, but my mortality is dwindling by the second, and I have to grab life by the balls while I still can.

We stumble into his apartment, practically mauling each other’s faces off without so much as a grace period, and his hands work double time to divest me of the offending jacket clinging to my shoulders.

While he’s busy undressing me, I slip my smart ring off before he—or my parents—are ever the wiser.

His touch is hungry, urgent, but there’s an underpinning of gentleness that blares a sense of respect for my body and my time—a rare currency in this hookup-based culture.

I can’t see where I’m going. The only lead I have is this stranger’s Midas touch melting the very legs I’m standing on. He licks into my mouth, caressing my tongue with his, vying for deeper access with a growl that reverberates through me like the rumbling announcement of an earthquake.

Hands mapping my curves—gripping in areas with extra give—he brings me flush against his front so that I can feel the evidence of his arousal filling out his zipper. Even with my vision compromised, I can tell that his humongous punisher is about to rip my vagina in half.

I’m about a foot shorter than him—evident given the way his erection bulges against my stomach—but I never have to rise to my tiptoes because he accommodates me with a hunch of his towering frame.

I feel so small in his arms, so fragile. It’s like he has the power to destroy me completely, but all my self-preservation instincts have fled the scene. I should be running. I should be protecting my body and my heart.

But the darkness has never felt so… right . I live for it. I’d kill for it. I crave it. I crave him .

When his fingers skirt the spaghetti strap of my tank top, he freezes. “Is this okay?”

Due to the lack of sufficient lighting, all I can make out is the shadow-contoured plane of his face, the whites of his eyes that seem to swallow me whole, and the glint of his teeth not unlike the pointed canines of a carnivore.

Why isn’t he ripping my clothes off my body? Why isn’t he throwing me across the room like a rag doll? Isn’t that what most guys do? Feel entitled to whatever’s in front of them?

The question catches me off guard. “Uh, yeah.”

We’re stopped in the middle of his open-plan kitchen—caught in a glade of glistening moonlight where dust particles dance around us—and slowly, he peels each strap down my arms. I gasp from the sudden siege of cold as my tank top falls, pooling around my waist after flaunting the black, lacy bra cupping my boobs.

The deadly concoction of air-conditioning and sexual tension makes my nipples bead with a shamelessness that would normally have me blushing something fierce.

I’m glad the lighting is subpar, otherwise he might see the foundation on my chest. I use it to cover up the small scar bisecting my breasts from my heart surgery.

A guttural noise sounds from deep within him, and he presses a kiss to the shelf of my collarbone, sucking gently before pulling the taut skin with his teeth.

I throw my head back on instinct, pushing my tits out to him, a white-hot lance of pleasure spidering throughout my entire body.

I’ve never wanted something so bad before.

My core burns. My pussy clenches and weeps for something to fill it.

There’s no trace of hesitation when he drags his lips to the valley of my breasts, dipping below my bra so he can tenderize the flesh with an open-mouthed hickey.

An embarrassingly loud moan emanates from my mouth, and the distribution of his weight has me staggering backwards until my back hits the wall.

Since he’s stooped over, I’m able to thread my fingers through his hair and wrap a fistful of strands around my knuckles, tugging whenever he stimulates the right set of nerves.

He pulls my pebbled nipple into his mouth, sucks until a backing track of squelching peals through the silence, then flicks his tongue in a hastened sequence over the tiny erogenous zone.

My spine arches. I yank hard enough on his hair to crick his neck, and I roll my hips over his engorged cock, a black hole of desire yawning inside me.

More. I need more. I’m lost to a kaleidoscopic haze of euphoria that clouds my judgment, my appetite growing beyond my control each time he brands my skin.

Much to my dismay, the heat of his mouth recedes, and I find him gazing at me through long lashes. He’s staring at me like I’m the answer to all his desires—like I’m the blind spot amidst all his strengths. I’ve never been looked at in this way before. It’s unnerving, almost.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, as if he’s selfishly hoarding the truth for himself.

Huh? No guy has ever said that to me before.

There’s nothing in my head that could possibly construct anything of substance. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but he’s different. Or maybe it’s all an act. He just says things with such… authenticity …that it’s hard to discern his true intentions.

I don’t respond, even though I should. I panic in that split second of time, letting my body language speak for me instead, and I grant him unobstructed access by shucking off my bra.

I ditch my pooled-up tank top too. Goose bumps pepper my now-exposed skin from the way his eyes rove over me at half-mast.

He continues his onslaught, this time tending to the length of my stomach with a march of butterfly kisses so delicious that they’re immobilizing.

My legs begin to shake, and I silently thank the wall for holding me up.

I was already one touch away from detonating completely, so I’m a goner when he licks a thick stripe from my navel to my boobs.

“I’ll do anything to taste you. Anything ,” he implores, holding me by my waist to stabilize himself.

“Already begging?” I jest, though a sick, twisted part of me is secretly turned on by his desperation.

“I’ve been told I look good on my knees.”

“Jury’s still out.”

“Then let me show you a different angle. How about between your thighs?”

With my chest littered in bite marks, a pool of slick collecting in the gusset of my panties, and my libido accelerating into full throttle, my patience is stretched thin.

I help him out of his shirt and run my hands down that impressive, shiny, Hawaiian roll six-pack of his.

Each muscle is intricately carved, and I don’t miss the way his stomach twitches under my innocent little touch.

“Are you going to worship me now?” I taunt, my cheeks flaming with breakneck need, rendering me at his mercy.

He rolls his shoulders back, his biceps tensing from the implication, and I foolishly think he’s about to unbutton my jeans before he grabs me by the ass and forcefully hikes me onto his hips. I cling to him like he’s my salvation, a stilted whimper snagging in the back of my throat.

A flicker of possessiveness passes over his face. “I’ll do you one better—I’ll make a religion in your fucking name.”

“Then do it,” I challenge, gouging my fingernails into his back for good measure, needing him to be inside me—tongue, dick, fingers—more than I need my next breath of air.

There’s no pretense for what happens next. One second, we’re in the kitchen, and the next, he’s setting me down on his bed, positioning himself at the headboard.

“Ride my face,” he demands, brooking little room for argument.

He looks like a fucking meal spread out before me, dappled in a faint layer of sweat, every muscle of his torso highlighted in pearlescent light from the waxing moon.

I’ve only ever seen a physique like his in magazines.

This man must snort protein powder for fun.

Wait a second…he said what ?

The only guy who’s ever (cue Australian accent) gone down unda was my first boyfriend, and he had no idea what he was doing.

I think it goes without saying, but I’ve never sat on anyone’s face before.

Hell, if it wasn’t for the help of Violet the Vibrator, I don’t think I’d even know what an orgasm feels like.

I blink owlishly. “What?”

Mystery Man’s brows furrow. “Did I stutter?”

“Are you kidding me? I’ll crush you.”

He cocks his head, some tresses from his middle part falling into his eyes. “Sweetheart, I’ve lifted weights heavier than you.”

I can tell.

“Sweetheart? Really?” I scoff, yet I can’t ignore the part of me that wants to preen for him.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he volleys.

“You didn’t tell me yours.”

A cocksure grin curls his lips as hubris clouds him like a second skin. “You’re right. You need something to scream when I’m nose-deep inside you.” There’s an arrogant edge to his tone, probably nourished by endless praise from all the women who came before me.

“That’s a little presumptuous.”

“It’s Crew,” he says, ignoring my previous comment.

Crew. The hotness continues.

It dawns on me that I’m still very naked, and I cover my breasts with my arms. I don’t know why I feel so…shy…all of a sudden. I’m not self-conscious, per se, but the way Crew stares at me instills anxiety into my barely beating heart.

“Merit,” I eke out.

I catch the tail end of a smile in the darkness. He’s so…beautiful. Otherworldly. Limned in filaments of moonlight.

He lifts his head a little. “Well, Merit, I’m a big man with a big appetite, and I’m going to die of fucking starvation if you don’t come over here and let me eat. So sit down. I’m not asking again.”

Swoon.

My cunt is screaming at me to do as he says, a burgeoning pressure engulfing the lower half of me like a wildfire. It’s unbearable—similar to shaking up my carnal want like it’s a carbonated beverage and capping it with nowhere to go.

Fuck it. I probably won’t suffocate him… right ?