Snap.
23
I’m Not Done with You Yet
Lucian
Hold your damn horses. I’m coming.”
The irritated voice on the other side of the door did nothing to calm me. She was here. She was fine. Which meant she’d snuck out on me like I was some shameful one-night stand that she didn’t want sticking around for breakfast.
Sloane Walton was about to learn a very serious lesson.
The front door swung open, and I enjoyed the flicker of shock on her pretty face. She was wearing a robe. Her hair was damp and her face free of last night’s makeup. She looked young and fresh…and nervous.
Had she tried to wash away what we’d done like it had never happened?
I hadn’t. I woke to a bed full of pillows and no Sloane. Five minutes later, I was in the car.
I slapped a hand to the open door in case she thought about shutting it in my face.
“What are you doing here? Did I leave something—”
“I’m not done with you yet.” I’d fucked her into the early hours of the morning until neither one of us could move. Then I’d fallen asleep with her back pressed to my front, my face in her hair, and slept like the dead. When I woke, there was one clear thought in my head.
Sloane wasn’t out of my system.
“Excuse me?” Her squeak was indignant and accompanied by a dangerous narrowing of the eyes as she took immediate offense.
We were both poised to fight. However, our bodies seemed to have different ideas. One second, I was standing on her I’m Probably Reading welcome mat; the next, I was crossing the threshold and hitching her up with one hand on her curvy, little ass. She wrapped her legs around my hips and speared her fingers into my hair, pulling my head down to hers.
Her mouth found mine, and a bolt of relief sliced through me.
She still wanted me.
That was all that mattered. One more time. That was what we needed. Then it would be out of our systems.
I kicked the door closed and spun around to press her against the wall. A picture frame tilted, then smashed to the floor.
“Sorry,” I muttered against her mouth and whirled us away from the wall. I needed to find a place to pin her down, hold her still. To make her stay.
But she was already frantically working the buttons of my shirt free, and I knew there was no chance in hell that I was going to make it upstairs to her bedroom. I dragged her robe open and threw it on the floor. Underneath, she was wearing one of those lacy bra tops that did nothing to hide the pucker of her nipples from my ravenous gaze.
I’d barely registered the small, purple bruise just above her nipple when she shoved a hand between us and found my belt buckle with a triumphant cry.
God, I wanted her. I craved her hands on me, her pleading whimpers of “please” and “more” in my ear. I needed to be inside her again.
I stumbled into the family room, bumping an end table and knocking over a lamp in my haste. The shade popped off and fell to the floor.
“It’s fine. I hate that lamp,” Sloane said against my mouth as she went to work on my fly.
I kicked the coffee table out of the way, spilling a pile of paperbacks onto the floor. My shins finally met an appropriate flat surface. The couch.
We landed like a felled tree with me barely managing to cushion our fall. Her hands abandoned my zipper and gripped my shirt. Something hissed, and a flash of gray and white fur darted over the cushion onto the console table behind the couch.
I didn’t care if it was a cat, a rat, or a possum. Nothing was more important than stripping Sloane naked.
My tongue plundered while I shoved the waistband of her underwear down her legs. Her frame was so small and delicate, yet her curves were tantalizing. That smooth ivory skin begged for my hands to cruise, to stroke, to nip.
I buried one hand in that beautiful fucking hair and sent the other diving between her legs. Decadently wet. I’d touched her sixty seconds ago, and her pussy was already ready for me. My cock gave another convulsive twitch, and I felt a hot burst of moisture flow from the tip.
We were making a mistake. I knew it. But I couldn’t stop myself.
She whimpered against my mouth and gripped my hair with one hand while the other one tried to shove my shirt off my shoulder.
I wanted to go slower this time. But anger and desire had blended into an adrenaline-fueled cocktail in my blood.
“You’d better have a condom somewhere on your body,” she said, nipping at my lower lip.
On a growl, I reared up and reached for my wallet in my pants pocket.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathed when I yanked the foil packet free and tossed the wallet in the direction of the coffee table.