Page 23 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

???? ????. He's huge. And hard. For me.

Radio static outside. "Check every container. Someone's here."

The door handle rattles.

Jax's hand slides to my hip, holding me still. His thumb finds bare skin where my shirt has ridden up, and the touch sears like a brand. My nipples peak to painful points against his chest.

Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't think about how perfectly he'd fit inside me.

His cock throbs against me, thick and insistent. The height difference puts him right where I'd need him if I lifted onto my toes, if I wrapped my legs around his waist, if I let him fuck me against this wall while guards search outside.

Stop. Stop thinking about his cock. Stop imagining—

"Sector seven clear," someone radios. "Moving to eight."

His breathing turns ragged against my temple. I can feel his pulse hammering where his throat presses against my cheek, matching the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat.

The footsteps fade, but neither of us moves.

"Mira." My name rumbles in his chest, vibrating against my breasts.

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't mention that you're trembling? Don't—fuck—" His hips press forward involuntarily, grinding his erection against me.

He can feel me shaking. Feel how my body responds to his. How much I want this.

My hands fist in his shirt. To push him away or pull him closer, I don't know.

"We need to move," I manage, but my voice comes out breathy, wrecked.

"Yeah." He doesn't move. His thumb strokes that bare strip of skin, and my knees threaten to buckle. "Except I can't think when you—Fuck, you smell like—"

"Jasmine." The word slips out before I can stop it.

Why did I tell him that?

"And danger." His lips brush my ear, not quite a kiss. "You smell like you could kill me, and fuck if that doesn't make me—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard. "Sorry. Shit. My brain just—when you're this close, I can't—words happen and—"

"Your words always happen." But there's no bite to it. Not when I can feel his control shredding, feel him fighting not to grind against me, feel my own control dissolving.

I want him to lose control. Want him desperate. Begging.

Voices outside, distant but approaching again.

"We run on three," I whisper.

His hand tightens on my hip. "Together or separate?"

Separate. Say separate.

"Together. Until we clear the perimeter."

His exhale shudders against my neck. "Good. Because I'm not—I mean, tactically it makes sense, but also I just—fuck, I need to stop talking."

"Yes."

"Right. Shutting up. Three?"