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A low groan escapes me as her hand drifts perilously close to the rapidly tightening front of my jeans. “Perseverance,” I rasp. “For making it through the darkest times.”
Her gaze meets mine, shining with understanding and something deeper—acceptance. It’s like she sees past everything and straight into my core essence. It's electrifying and mildly terrifying.
“What about this one?” She presses a scorching kiss to the musical note behind my ear.
A guttural sound tears from my throat as her teeth graze the sensitive skin. “For the one constant in my life,” I confess in a rush. “The thing that's always made sense, no matter how crazy everything else got.”
Her eyes shimmer with a mix of awe and desire as she takes me in. “Is that why you got into music? To make sense of things?”
I pause, caught off guard by the depth of her question and my own vulnerability. But I can't lie to her and I don't want to.
“It was my escape,” I admit roughly. “From a shitty home life, from feelings I didn't understand...”
I hesitate, unsure if I can bare my soul. But she just watches, patiently and open, encouraging me to continue. So I do.
“Writing songs, losing myself in the music—it was the only way I knew how to process everything. To survive.” I let out a shaky breath.
For a beat, she's utterly still, allowing my confession to sink in. Then, with agonizing tenderness, she cups my face. “You've always been so passionate, so driven.”
I capture her hand, pressing a reverent kiss to her palm. “You're the only one who sees me, Scar. The real me.”
Then she's kissing me again, and it's like the world tilts on its axis. Nothing exists but the exquisite slide of her tongue, the taste of whiskey, and something infinitely more addictive—her.
I groan into the kiss, my hands roaming the curves of her body, desperate to map every inch of her. She arches into my touch, a breathy moan escaping her lips. The sound ignites a primal hunger in me. I need her, all of her, in a way I've never needed anyone.
My hands find her hips, pulling her close. She gasps at the contact, and I growl into her mouth. “Holy shit, Scar—” I growl, my voice rough with need. “You have no idea what you're doing to me.”
She smirks, a wicked curve of her lips that I want to taste again and again. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Emboldened, she straddles my lap, her soft curves molding deliciously against me. Her legs instinctively wrap around my hips, pressing closer.
I grip her hips to steady us both as she leans in, her lips only a breath away. Any other thoughts vanish as she presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along my throat.
My hands find the hem of her shirt, tugging it upward urgently. We break the kiss just long enough for me to pull it over her head and toss it aside.
She stands before me, chest heaving, clad in only a lacy black bra. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her, chest heaving, wearing only a lacy black bra.
“Beautiful,” I breathe reverently. “So damn beautiful.”
A flush stains her cheeks, but there's no shyness in her gaze. Only desire, hot and heavy, mirroring my own.
I reach for her, my hands spanning her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. She shivers at the contact, her nipples tightening against the delicate lace.
I dip my head, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, reveling in the way her pulse jumps beneath my lips.
I tangle my fingers in her hair, dragging her mouth back to mine. The kiss is deep, possessive, a silent vow. I won't fuck this up. I won't fuck us up.
Scarlett moans into the kiss, her hands roaming my chest, her nails leaving trails of fire in their wake. I can't take it anymore. I need her, all of her. Now.
Muttering a coarse curse, I stand up, hoisting her into my arms. Her legs wrap around my waist as I stride toward the bed and lay her down on the crisp, white sheets.
Her heated gaze never once leaves mine, and my cock surges against my fly at the hunger in her eyes. She's a vision of pure, unadulterated desire.
“Tell me what you want,” I rasp, fighting to keep my voice even. “What you need.”
She hesitates, bites her lip, and whispers “You.”
That simple admission is all I need. With shaking hands, I unclasp her bra and let it join her discarded shirt on the floor. Her breasts spill free, pert and perfect, the dusky pink tips puckered and hard.
