Page 97 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

“Hey, don’t insult the tacos,” I protested, but I was already pulling the shirt over my head. “They’re lucky.”

“Lucky how?” His voice was distracted as his gaze traveled over my newly exposed skin.

“They got me into your room, didn’t they?”

He groaned, his hands spanning my waist. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“What a way to go, though,” I said, then gasped as his mouth closed over mine. I grabbed his shoulders for support.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he admitted as his lips trailed lower. “About you. More than I should have.”

“Good,” I managed, my fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. “Because I’ve been thinking about it too.”

He jerked his shirt and then his undershirt over his head and tossed it to the side. “And?”

I marveled at the lean muscles and the tattoos. “Better than I imagined. And I have a very good imagination.”

His laugh was cut short as I traced one of the tattoos with my fingertip. “What is this?”

“Later,” he said, his hands finding the waistband of my pajama pants. “Right now I’m more interested in mapping new territory.”

“That’s a terrible line,” I said, but I was grinning as I said it.

“I’m better with food than words.”

“Lucky for you, I find your cooking extremely sexy.”

“Just my cooking?” He was easing my pajama pants down my hips now, taking my panties with them.

“Well.” I pretended to consider this seriously, even as my breath hitched at the feel of his hands on my skin. “Your hands are pretty talented too.”

“I haven’t even shown you what these hands can really do yet.”

The promise in his voice made heat pool low in my belly. “Then maybe you should stop talking and start demonstrating.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice soft with wonder as he looked down at me.

“So are you.” I reached for him, pulling him down to me.

His mouth was on me again and thinking became impossible.

“I want to taste all of you,” he murmured.

His words sent a shiver through me. When he said he wanted to taste all of me, I believed him. The intensity in his dark eyes promised he meant every word. Rhett was not the kind of guy that did anything halfway.

He started at my collarbone, pressing soft kisses along the delicate ridge before trailing lower. His mouth left a path of fire across my skin. I arched beneath him, my hands fisting in the hotel’s crisp white sheets.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he murmured against my skin, his voice rough with desire.

I wanted to respond with something clever, but coherent thought became impossible as his mouth continued its journey south. He took his time, savoring every inch like he was tasting a perfectly crafted dish for the first time. His hands followed the path his lips blazed, mapping the curves of my body with the same precision he brought to everything else.

When he reached my breasts, I gasped. He looked up at me, those dark eyes holding mine as his tongue flicked across one sensitive peak.

“Rhett,” I breathed, my back arching off the bed.

“I love the way you say my name,” he said before lavishing attention on the other breast.

My fingers tangled in his thick black hair, holding him to me as sensation crashed over me in waves. I had never felt anything like his complete focus. The worship of my body like it was something precious and perfect.