Page 72 of Reckless Hearts

The door opens, and we stumble inside.

Marcus stands before me, his white shirt now practically transparent, clinging to every muscle. Water droplets trace paths down his jaw and his usually perfectly styled hair is endearingly mussed, his eyes smoldering.

Holy shit. He’s so out-of-this-world gorgeous.

It’s almost impossible to believe he’s mine for the night.

Luckily, Marcus gets impatient with me just standing there gaping at him because he surges forward, capturing my lips in a blistering kiss.

And then it’s just a blur of motion as we tug and pull at each other’s clothes. My fingers fumble with Marcus’s shirt buttons while he practically tears my jacket off. We leave a trail of sodden fabric in our wake, like the world’s sexiest breadcrumb trail.

Both naked, we stumble back against the wall. I hit the plaster with a soft thud, grateful for its support as my knees threaten to give way. Marcus crowds me, his hands braced on either side of my head, caging me.

“Seb,” he says, and I’m fairly sure no man has ever uttered my name with such raw hunger. It’s like he’s savoring the taste of it on his tongue.

But he doesn’t lean forward to claim my lips again. Instead, Marcus drops to his knees.

The sight of Marcus Johnson, Hollywood heartthrob, on his knees before me is almost enough to short-circuit my brain. Then his mouth envelops my cock, he reaches a hand back to caress the skin behind my balls, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory.

Holy shit. My head tips backward against the wall.

Every nerve ending in my body is suddenly dialed up to eleven. Waves of sensation crash over me, making my toes curl and my fingers clutch at the plaster of the walls. My eyes scrunch closed.

But then I realize I don’t want to miss a moment of this.

When I open my eyes, they catch on the mirror on the far wall, where I can see the entire tableau reflected back at me—Marcus on his knees, his back a canvas of shifting muscles as he grips my hips while I’m pinned against the wall, flushed and panting.

It’s like watching the world’s most erotic art installation.

“I need you inside me.” My voice is past desperation and has entered a new realm of need.

Marcus rises to his feet, his eyes dark with want.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over Marcus looking at me like that.

He kisses me hard, and then we fumble our way to the bed, a tangle of limbs and urgent touches.

I only manage to pull myself away from Marcus long enough to grab lube and a condom from my toiletry bag. I didn’t even acknowledge to myself when I packed these that part of me—the part that still kind of hopes thatStar Warsis based on a true story—was hopeful that this is what I’d be using them for.

When I return to bed, Marcus rakes his gaze up and down me.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says simply.

I laugh in disbelief because I’m definitely not the beautiful one in this equation. But now is not the time for an extended discussion of facial symmetry and the golden ratio of beauty.

Now is the time for Marcus to give me slow, tender kisses that make me feel hazy and unmoored as he works me open with his fingers.

He tries to go slow, but I’m impatient, pushing back against him, wanting everything right now.

When he curls his fingers to hit the right spot, my eyes roll back in my head, my whole body trembling like I’ve been hit by a localized earthquake.

“Marcus.” I don’t think my voice has ever sounded so needy.

It seems to hit a switch inside Marcus, and suddenly, he removes his fingers and flips me onto my stomach, his strong hands gripping my hips as he pulls me onto my knees.

Then he’s teasing me with his cock at my entrance, the blunt pressure driving me wild with anticipation. The sensation is so intense it’s like every nerve ending in my body is concentrated in that one spot.

“That’s the definition of a cock tease,” I gasp out, and I’m rewarded by a huff of laughter.