Page 32 of Make Me Yours (Chicago Railers Hockey #1)

STEELE

B y the time we step out of the restaurant, I’m barely hanging on by a thread.

The night air is cool and crisp against my skin, but it does nothing to dull the heat simmering just below the surface. Lilah’s hand rests lightly in mine, her touch grounding, even as everything inside me spirals.

The valet pulls up quickly, the engine of my Lamborghini purring. I slip a bill into the kid’s hand and then round the car to open the door for Lilah. She slides in with a quiet murmur of thanks, the black dress riding up her thighs as she settles into the passenger seat.

I circle the hood and slip behind the wheel, gripping the leather as the engine growls beneath us. The low, luxurious sound has nothing on the rush roaring through my veins.

Lilah shifts beside me, tugging at the hem of her dress, her perfume lingering in the cabin. As familiar as the subtle scent is, it’s no less potent. A mix of honey, vanilla, and something entirely her. It coils low in my gut, fraying every last thread of control with it.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and focus on the ribbon of road stretched out in front of me, silently counting the miles between us and home.

All I want is to get her there.

Alone.

She’s been driving me out of my mind all damn night. The way she sat next to me at dinner, smiling and laughing, completely unaware that with every glance, every brush of her fingers, every shift in her seat, I was unraveling.

The little black dress hugs her curves in ways I want to memorize with my hands and my mouth. Her legs are bare and crossed, her skin glowing in the reflection of the city lights. The gloss on her lips is still faintly smudged from when I kissed her on the rooftop.

I want to taste it again.

And then again.

She glances at me, and even in the dim cabin, I can see it.

Excitement.

Nerves.

And questions.

She said yes.

And now she’s wondering exactly what that means.

Only wanting to put her at ease, I reach across the center console and find her hand before threading our fingers together and bringing them to my lips to press a kiss against her knuckles. Her skin is smooth beneath my mouth, and I linger there, letting the moment settle between us like smoke.

She stills for a heartbeat.

When I glance over, her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling just a little too fast.

Good.

I want her flustered.

Unsteady.

Undone.

Because that’s what she does to me just by existing .

I flick on the turn signal and merge onto the road that winds back toward my penthouse. The city blurs outside the windows with neon signs, headlights, and glittering high-rises. Inside the car, it’s quiet. Thick with anticipation.

Lilah shifts again.

She uncrosses and then recrosses her legs, thighs pressing together, as if she’s trying to stifle the ache building between them.

My lips lift into a knowing smirk.

She’s squirming.

And I fucking love it.

I want her need to rise like a tide until there’s no holding it back. Until the only thing she can think about is me. My hands. My mouth. The things I plan to do to her once we’re alone.

The things she doesn’t even realize she’s been craving for years.

“Take off your panties,” I say, eyes pinned to the road.

Her head snaps toward me. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” I say, calm and steady. A low thread of command woven into every word. “I want them off.”

The silence that stretches between us is taut and electric. She doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t speak. I can feel her watching me, weighing her response.

Weighing what she wants.

She shifts, and everything inside me tightens.

When her hands disappear beneath the hem of her dress, I grip the wheel as she slides the black lace down her hips and thighs, inch by torturous inch.

My peripheral vision catches every subtle movement as her fingers work.

There’s the graceful flex of muscle under satin skin and the teasing flash of bare thighs as the panties slip past her knees.

She hesitates before lifting the scrap of fabric.

“Give them to me,” I murmur, extending my hand .

Without a word, she places them in my palm. The lace is warm from her skin, damp with arousal.

I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply.

The scent of her hits me like a drug. It’s both intoxicating and addictive.

“Fuck,” I bite out. “I’ve spent years wondering what you’d smell like.”

And now that I know?

I don’t think I’ll ever recover.

When she gasps, I glance over to find her flushed and trembling, her hands fisted tightly together like she’s trying to contain what’s already spilling over.

And we haven’t even started yet.

I tuck the lace into my jacket pocket and then slide my hand onto her thigh. Her skin is silken, warm, already quivering beneath my touch. I squeeze gently, then start to inch upward. My movements are measured. I want her panting by the time we reach the building.

I want her desperate.

Consumed with need.

She exhales as my fingers trail higher.

“Widen your legs for me.”

She obeys instantly.

There’s no hesitation.

Or shame.

Just need.

She parts her thighs with a whimper, the vulnerability of the gesture nearly knocking the air out of me.

My fingers stroke the slick seam of her with a featherlight touch.

No pressure. No intrusion. Just a steady, teasing glide across the surface of her pussy.

She twitches beneath my hand and her hips shift.

And still, I don’t give her more.

Not yet.

She’s drenched. Hot and pulsing beneath my fingertips. Her slickness coats my fingers with every pass, and it takes all of my self-control not to abandon the wheel and bury myself in her right here, right now.

But I won’t rush this.

Not tonight.

I want her riding that edge so long she forgets her own name.

Her hips begin to roll subtly, seeking friction. Her hands grip the seat as her breathing turns ragged.

I keep the pressure light.

She moans as her head tips back against the leather, her body restless with want. “Please.”

I glance over, needing to see her face. “Please what, baby? What do you want?”

Her eyes are half-lidded and heavy with arousal as a deep flush stains her cheeks. “I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

With a groan, she shifts closer.

Seeking more.

I pull back just enough to tap her inner thigh. “That’s not an answer. If you want me to play with your body, you need to be specific. Try again.”

Her bottom lip catches between her teeth. “My pussy.”

Those two words nearly undo me.

“That’s my good girl,” I rasp, sliding one finger inside her heat.

When she cries out, my jaw clenches. Her inner walls tighten around me, hot and wet and pulsing. I curl my finger, slow and deep. Her thighs tremble. She’s unraveling beneath my touch, shaking apart in the passenger seat of my car.

I keep driving the entire time I touch her.

My foot presses harder on the gas. We’re going twenty over the speed limit now, but I don’t give a shit. All I care about is the way she whimpers beside me. The way she holds my wrist like it’s the only thing anchoring her to earth.

“Steele…” Her voice is rough. Desperate. “Please… just… fuck me.”

God.

Her need is so raw and real.

I glance over at her. She’s panting, her head tilted back, her chest rising and falling in sharp little bursts. Her legs are spread open, and her body is begging for release.

And she’s so fucking beautiful like this.

I work her faster, then slower, fingers dragging her to the brink again and again, only to back off at the last second.

She curses.

Pleads.

Whines.

It’s exactly how I want her.

The way I’ve always imagined her.

By the time we pull into the parking garage, she’s incoherent. Her thighs are damp and her lips swollen from being played with.

And the best part?

We haven’t even gone upstairs yet.

Because once we’re through that door, Lilah Monroe belongs to me.

Every inch.

Every moan.

Every heartbeat.

Forever.