Page 82 of Tempest’s Torment

Tempest keeps still, propped on his elbows, like he’s memorizing the look of me in the half-light.

I become painfully aware of what I must look like. My hair's everywhere, there's probably a crease from the pillow across my cheek, my T-shirt's twisted and I haven't even brushed my teeth yet. And he's still staring at me.

"You know I look terrible in the morning, right?"

His eyes move over my face. "No, you don't." The way he says it makes my stomach flip. His hand comes up and he brushes my hair away from my cheek, his fingers lingering against my skin.

"What?" I ask again, quieter this time.

His gaze drops to my mouth. "You're beautiful."

I stop breathing for a second; nobody's ever said it to me quite like that. “You’re staring,” I say.

“Yeah, I am.”

I smile. “Any particular reason?”

His hand comes up, fingers brushing along my cheek before pushing a piece of hair away from my face. “I like waking up with you.”

My smile grows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Could get used to it.”

Something warm spreads through my chest. “So could I.”

His gaze comes back to mine. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Means I’m staying again.”

I laugh. “Bit presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Then I’m staying.” His mouth is already moving down, following the trail of his hand over my skin. He kisses my collarbone, sharp and sweet, then lower, pausing to taste every inch. I arch into him, greedy for the friction and the heat. My hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, and he lets out a sound that’s almost a growl.

When he lines himself up against me, it’s slow, deliberate torture. He holds himself back, like he wants to draw it out, or maybe he’s worried he’ll break me. I laugh a little, the sound caught between a gasp and a moan. “You’re not going to hurt me,” I say, and I mean it. If anything, I want to feel more.

He pushes in, smooth and careful, but I lock my ankles around him and pull him deeper. He curses, low and hoarse in my ear, and then starts to move. The rhythm is all wrong at first, awkward and too slow, but it works in our favor, getting us tangled up and raw right away. His hand slides under my back, holding me tight, and our mouths crash together again and again, like we can’t get enough.

Every time I moan, he answers with a deep thrust, he moves faster, not rough, but demanding. The ache builds in my stomach, tighter and tighter, until I dig my nails into his back.

“Tempest,” I groan.

“Kai,” he corrects.

My eyes snap to his. For a second, everything else disappears as Natalia's voice comes back to me from yesterday.

When a biker gives you his real name, pay attention. The club gets the road name. His woman gets the man.

At the time, I'd smiled and told her I wasn't his woman; she just laughed. I'm not laughing now. “Kai,” I whisper.

Something changes in his face. “Again.”

“Kai.”