Page 21 of Purrfectly Outfoxed
“You’re insane,” she spits, but her hands are on my shoulders now, nails digging in—not quite painfully, more like she’s holding on for dear life. Her breath comes fast, cheeks flushed, and those eyes, those incredible eyes, lock onto mine with a fire that could burn us both down.
“Am I?” I murmur, dropping the towel to wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. She’s all slick curves and trembling fury, and my body’s reacting in ways that are impossible to hide, especially with only my jeans between us. “Then why aren’t you scratching my face off right now? Why are you letting me hold you like this?”
“Because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit,” she retorts, but her voice wavers, and I feel the wall in her mind cracking, emotions seeping through—desire, confusion, that same pull I’m drowning in. She doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, she presses in tighter, like she’s testing the waters, or maybe just testing me.
I lean down, my mouth hovering near her ear, voice dropping to that raspy timbre I know gets under her skin. “Or maybe because you feel it too. That itch you can’t scratch alone. The way your thoughts keep circling back to me, to us, tangled up in ways that’d make even the gods blush.”
She shivers—just the subtlest quake through her muscles, a tremor that says she’s fighting herself even more than she’s fighting me.
“Let go,” she says, but it’s a whisper, not a command. I read her body, the lean in, the soft hitch of her breath, the way her pupils are blown wide. Her hands slip to my biceps and I’m half-expecting her to shove me away, but instead she holds on, steadying herself, and suddenly we’re both suspended in a moment neither of us owns.
“You like this,” I say. No question. A fact. “You like the fight.”
Her lips part, and for a second I think she’s going to deny it, but what comes out is a sound halfway between a purr and a moan. “You think you’re so irresistible,” she says, but her voice is thready, like she’s already bracing for what comes next.
“Not irresistible. Fated,” I whisper, and lower my mouth to hers.
Chapter 7
Tabitha
His mouth crashes against mine and every thought in my head evaporates.
I should push him away. Should shift and claw him. Should do literally anything except what I’m doing, which is opening for him, letting his tongue slide against mine, moaning into his mouth like I’ve been starving for this.
Maybe I have been.
His hands grip my waist, fingers digging into my wet skin hard enough to bruise, and god, I want the bruises. Want proof that this is real, that I’m not imagining the way my entire body lights up when he touches me.
This isn’t the mate bond, my rational brain tries to argue.This isn’t real. It’s just biology. Instinct. You haven’t had sex in a really long time, that’s all this is. You don’t actually want him.
But my body calls bullshit on that theory while heat pools low in my belly, my nipples harden against his bare chest, and I arch into him like I can’t get close enough.
He breaks the kiss long enough to murmur against my lips, “Still think this isn’t fate?”
“It’s not fate. I haven’t been with anyone in over two years and you’re the closest male?—”
“Liar. You can’t logic your way out of this.” His mouth trails down my jaw to my neck, teeth scraping against my pulse point. “You smell like my mate. You kiss like my mate. Now let me see if you taste like my mate.”
Before I can respond, he bends slightly and lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me on the bathroom counter. The cold surface against my ass makes me gasp, but then his hands are on my thighs, pushing them apart, and suddenly the cold is the least of my concerns.
“Jasper—”
“I know,” he says, dropping to his knees between my legs. He looks up at me, those amber eyes dark with hunger. “You’re going to tell me this is a bad idea. That we should stop. That we barely know each other.”
“We don’t?—”
“We don’t need to.” His mouth finds my center and my mind goes blank.
“Oh fuck.” I should fight him, push him away. But the moment his tongue sweeps through me, I moan. “God, yes. Keep doing that.”
He chuckles against me, the vibration making my thighs tremble. “That’s more like it, kitty.”
Then he gets serious.
His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, learning me, tasting me, and I can feel his satisfaction pulsing through our connection every time I gasp or moan or rock against his face. One hand grips my hip, holding me steady, while the other joins his mouth, fingers teasing my entrance.
“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs between licks. “Better than I imagined.”