Page 67 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

“You’re clenching my fingers so damn tight. Can’t wait until it’s my cock in there.”

His inner angle changed, or maybe it was his dirty words, but pleasure burst through her. She cried out and shook. Her vision blurred. She knocked her head back and arched as the aftershocks blinded her. “What did you do to me?”

“That was for me, love.”

Oh, this man. She was ruined. She would never feel this good with someone else.

He eased her to her stomach and rolled her to her back. The sight of him had her desperate for more. His wild hair tumbled over his forehead, his cheeks hollowing as he stared at her hungrily.

“I need to touch you,” she said, begging.

“Not yet.” The words seemed to pain him. He hovered above her, chest expanding with his heavy breaths, but he didn’t move to kiss her or connect their bodies. She was about ready to tell him where to shove his control, when he whispered, “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

With the tenderness of a man in more than lust with a woman, he inched down and kissed her scar.

She flinched, fire fisting her throat. She twisted slightly, hoping he’d move lower, higher—anywhere but near that scar. He held her in place and kissed the puckered skin again.

Part of her wanted to jump off the bed and run back to Lucien and the familiar life she knew. One where her heart only beat for her and zero friends and zero lovers meant zero hurt. But Jack’s lips, his affection—she shuddered with the joy of it…and surrendered.

She tunneled her fingers through his hair and held him to her abdomen. He kissed her scar again, each press like fresh stitches healing her wound. His lips traveled to her ribs, over her breasts, tugged at her sensitive nipples. More exploration. More devotion. “Touch me,” he commanded.

It was about time. She kneaded the muscles of his back, dug her fingers into the deep grooves. She arched her spine for him.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Bend for me, love.”

Bend, don’t break. Contort myself into this man’s world. His erection slid against her thigh. He rocked his hips, the heavy length of him so close yet so far. She tried to wriggle lower, anchor him between her thighs. He stayed in control. Kissing. Worshipping. Bend for me, love.

When he finally lowered his bare chest against hers, a sob almost burst past her teeth. She clamped her molars tight. Flexed every muscle in her body.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Why the hell am I about to cry?

“Clementine,” he said softly. “You need to let go. I’m not going anywhere.”

Fear of abandonment. Her issues were basically tattooed on her forehead. She wasn’t blind to them. Didn’t mean she’d dealt with that mess or had ever cared to try. Jack cared. She wanted to care, too.

“I don’t know how,” she whispered.

He held her head between his large hands and gazed at her. His mouth was full and lush, softening the serious lines of his face. “Be here with me. Nowhere else. Just here, right now.”

Right now. The best right now she’d ever known.

His eyes didn’t shift, the steadiness making her feel safe. And God, the fervor in his eyes. He looked at her with so much—warmth, compassion…love?—so much something that it stole her breath. She couldn’t suck air in or let it out. Out would mean tears. In would open her heart further. Both moves could get her hurt. But oxygen was as integral to life as affection. Living without either turned a person hard and cold.

She chose exhaling, a whoosh of air that brought with it that terrifying sob.

Jack’s chest swelled wider, his eye contact solid and sure. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

But she did—she let go. He was naked on top of her, holding his body up enough not to crush her, his remaining weight offering comfort. A blanket of skin and bones and trust and hope. It was too much and not enough. She yanked his head lower, forced his mouth on hers. He swallowed her fears and gave her a promise of more. Another sob. Wet, hungry lips.

His body heat intensified, everywhere their skin met scorching. “Need to be inside you,” he gritted out.

“Yes. Now. Please.”

He nudged her legs apart and knelt between her thighs, using his fingers to drive her mad again. She canted her hips, asking for him, while wiping at another escaping tear.

His fingers stilled. “Don’t touch your face. Don’t hide from me.”

So this was what he needed from her, to see her vulnerable and trust her after the lies she’d told. Clementine wasn’t normally a crier, unless she was intimate with Jack, apparently. She rarely succumbed to emotion. Crying was weakness. In foster care it painted you as a target.