Our lips finally part, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, taking in his intoxicating scent, trying to memorize how this feels. Apparently, my feet have an agenda, because it’s me who walks us backward to my bed.
When my shins hit the mattress, I make it a mission to strip away his many layers—his winter coat, suit jacket, and dress shirt. I’m like an impatient Regency-era hero finally peeling away his lady’s dress, only to find a slip and a corset underneath. I catch only a glimpse of the masterpiece that is his abs and the dusting of ashy hair disappearing into his dress pants before I go for his belt, hungry.
He places a trembling hand over mine, sucking in a labored breath.
I meet his heated gaze in a challenge, my breath quickening. “You sure you want to keep this PG-13?”
His expression is grave, like a mobster tormented over ordering an execution. “No. I want to do way more than that.”
“I want you to. Please,” I whisper.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I think I would sell my soul to have more of him, in any way I can.
? chapter twenty-eight
TREVOR IS A magician. It’s an undisputable fact. By the time I’ve figured out that the tattoo on his ribs reads Alice Metcalfe—1969–2006, in memory of his mom, he’s managed to strip his boots and my dress.
“That dress looked so fucking perfect on you,” he tells me, tossing the blue fabric aside.
I shiver as he unhooks my bra, trailing kisses along the underside of my jaw. “My followers wanted this.”
“None of your followers wanted it more than me.” In one swift motion, he lifts me, pulling me over him on the bed in a seated position.
I wiggle closer, locking my legs around his thick torso. My hands roam down the plane between his muscled shoulder blades, over the swell of his biceps, everywhere I can manage. After months of pining, he’s mine. I’d die before I’d let him out of my reach.
He’s solid underneath me, like a brick house, as I clench around him again. I kiss him everywhere I can reach, savoring every inch of flesh I can find. Cheeks. Nose. Neck. Forehead. Chin. Shoulders. I take every location as a victory. A new discovery. A checkpoint.
“Holy shit.” His voice comes out like a strained whisper, leaning me back to take me in with that incinerating stare I’ve grown to love. He sucks in a breath before letting his thumb brush the underside of my breast, followed up by the most intricate dance of his tongue. I suck in a long inhale, memorizing the scent of his bodywash, the same one I inhaled like a drug on move-in day.
I moan into his neck as he rocks me against him, straining against the zipper of his pants. I make an impatient motion to undo the button. He laughs, lifting me with little effort as he stands, stripping both his pants and briefs in one smooth movement.
I almost choke on my own saliva. He is genetically gifted. Blessed. Exactly zero flaws—to me, anyway. Not even a lazy eye. Or a slightly warped toe. How unfair.
He stands in front of me, and his smile makes me want to melt into nothingness. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’ve seen it before.”
Because I want to grope every inch of you with heedless abandon.
With a featherlight touch, my fingers trace the artwork that adorns his chest. I curve over every detail of the striking gray phoenix that covers the left section of his chest, sweeping onto his shoulder and biceps.
“I love this one,” I murmur. “When did you get it?”
“It was a celebratory one. Right after I got accepted to the fire department.”
Still dancing my fingers over his chest, I catch the set of Roman numerals on his forearm that I’ve never been able to decipher. “What about this one?”
He swallows. “This one is Angie’s birthday.”
I inwardly groan. Must he be so unexpectedly sentimental and adorable? I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing firmly into his flesh. His muscles clench and flex at every touch, his breath coming out in hot, quick bursts, like he’s about to lose all patience the lower my hand travels.
Evilly, I sweep a painfully slow circle dangerously close, around his inner thigh, before snapping my hand away.
“You okay?” he asks, lifting my chin.
“It’s just . . . I have a question.”
His throat bobs with a swallow as he kneels on the mattress in front of me. “Okay.”
“What’s your middle name?”
His muscles relax, and the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. The rumble of his laughter vibrates into my mouth when his lips touch mine again. “Why are you so random?” he mutters between kisses.
I giggle into him, kissing the tiny patch of skin behind his ear. “I need to know. I have a bit of a personal rule . . . with . . .”
“Right, you can’t touch my dick unless you know my middle name.”
“Hey, I don’t have to touch it if you don’t want me to,” I tease.
“Oh, I want you to. So long as you don’t bite me,” he warns, pressing the softest bite into my neck. “I hear you have a history of biting.”
“Deal. I promise,” I pant, desperate to speed things along. “Now make with the middle name.”
With one smooth move, he climbs over me, pressing my back flat against the mattress. His forearms cage me in on both sides, bracing his weight. “It’s James,” he whispers as he pulls my right thigh over his chiseled waist.
“Trevor James Metcalfe,” I repeat, loving the way it rolls off my tongue.
“Say my name again,” he orders, his voice low and gravelly.
I do as I’m told, three times over.
“There is no one like you, Tara Li Chen.” The warmth of his breath tickles against my neck as his hand sweeps down the valley between my breasts.
Gently, he pushes my other thigh open. The coolness of the air sends a tingle through me, settling in my belly. Without hesitation, he tugs the lace of my thong aside, not bothering to remove it completely before smoothing his fingers over me with the precision of a heart surgeon. He lets out a garbled string of curses when he feels how much I want him.
“Yes,” I say through a sharp intake of breath, fighting an embarrassingly dramatic quiver. All my thoughts burst into mist and nothingness. I’m gone. Down the rabbit hole. Already lost in wonderland as the friction builds with each swipe of his finger.
“Does that feel good?” he whispers, easing one finger in, followed by a second.
“Mm-hmm,” I manage, clipped, as I clench around him, rocking against him in a slow rhythm. My nails grip into his back, probably leaving scratch marks on his perfect skin.
He’s mumbling a bunch of things I can’t fully hear down there, about how sensitive I am to his touch. How tight I am. How wet I am. How much he wants me. And when he says, “Tell me what you like,” he nearly sends me over the edge.
I’ve had exes who’ve asked me for instructions during sex, almost to the point of ruining the mood. But it drives me wild when Trevor asks in that rough, primitive voice that grabs hold of my insides. There’s an air of confidence that tells me he doesn’t truly need instruction. He knows exactly what he’s doing, moving at the perfect pace and angle, cherishing me, taking care of me like I’ve never been cared for before.