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He dropped his hands from her face to wrap his arms around her body, holding her in place. Holy hell, her body was fucking perfect, fitting against him like she was made for him.
Because she was.
Unthinking, driven by an atavistic urge to mate, his hips ground against her, pressing the throbbing, hard length of his cock against her belly.
Heaven. Fuck. She felt like heaven, and he wasn’t even inside her.
Yet.
She gasped, her gorgeous eyes widening. But—he made note—she didn’t pull away. She remained where she was, panting. Melting into him.
Fuck yeah, his baby was hungry for his cock.
But they had to wait.
She wasn’t ready—and neither was he.
That wouldn’t stop him from enjoying the little things, though.
He smirked down at her, loving the look of shock and awe on her lovely face.
Her luscious curves were like velvet against the steel of his muscles. Hard beautifully cushioned by soft. Firm sensually subdued by the supple. He pressed his nose against her skin of her throat, just behind her ear, and took a deep breath. At the scent of warm vanilla, he moaned—both contented and goddamn ravenous. How did she do it? How was she his calm and his condemnation in the same person? Frayed and frantic perfectly soothed by silk and satin, flesh and blood.
Skimming his nose over her fragrant skin, he hummed. “Because, baby, you aren’t ready.” He drew up to his full height, taking in her heated, needy expression, and nearly said “fuck it.”
She gazed up at him, confusion and barely banked desire darkening her features. Her already ripe lips were kiss swollen and a deep pink. God…to taste her again. To engrave her flavor into his bones so that even the depths of him knew her delicate essence.
Lord, fuck. Once he finally got her into his bed, beneath him, around him, it was going to be fucking catastrophic. It would shake his world to its foundations, and he would go down bellowing her name.
“No more avoiding me, baby,” he commanded in a low rasp, then headed out.
Shutting the door behind him, he closed his eyes and cursed.
“Fuck, I need a drink.”
Cilla would be the death of him, and he’d thank her on his way down to hell.
SEVEN
Cilla didn’t know how long she sat on the couch in her living room, staring at the black screen of her TV.
Hours?
She couldn’t even remember what she’d been watching, whether she actually finished it, let alone when she turned the TV off.
She blinked, turning her head just enough to read the clock on the tiny entertainment center that held all her Walmart DVD bin movies.
What.
The.
Hell.
Happened?
She’d been tucked into her home for the night, basically slobbin’ out without a care, and then there was the knock…and there was Patriot. He’d been angry at her. She’d been angry at him. He’d reminded her about the night of the party, and then….
His mouth on hers….
