Page 148 of The Next Lie

That works.

I unbutton her jeans and push them down with her underwear. She helps because she is impatient, stepping free of one leg and kicking the denim aside with far less grace than pride would prefer.

The stone bench sits a couple of feet away beneath an oak, old and heavy, its back angled toward the low wall. I guide her to it with my hand at her nape.

She looks over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Acting on my intentions.”

Her eyes flare.

I bend her over the bench.

She catches herself with both hands on the cool stone, breath leaving her in a rush. I step behind her, spread her legs with my knee, and drag my palm down her spine. Her skin pebbles under my touch. She is already wet when my fingers find her.

My jaw clenches.

“Jesus, Reva.”

“Don’t sound so smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“Liar.”

I slide two fingers into her and lean over her back, my mouth at her ear. “I am pleased.”

Her laugh breaks into a moan when my thumb finds her clit.

The garden gives us too much cover. The bench, the hedges, the shade of the oak. Anyone could come around the path if they ignored every survival instinct they have. The risk sharpens her. I feel it in the way she tightens around my fingers, in the way her breath catches when I tug her hair enough to lift her head.

“Quiet,” I say.

She looks back at me, eyes dark. “Make me.”

Oh, that’s a bad idea.

And a really, really good idea.

I withdraw my fingers, undo my belt, and shove my pants down far enough. Her gaze drops over her shoulder, and the defiance on her face flickers.

I keep one hand in her hair and guide myself to her with the other.

“Last chance.”

She pushes back against me.

It’s answer enough.

I drive into her in one hard thrust.

Her cry tears out before she can stop it. I cover her mouth with my hand, not to silence her completely, just to make her feel the command. Her body clamps around mine, hot and tight, and I have to lock my knees to keep from losing control too fast.

She braces one hand on the bench and reaches the other toward the tree on the far side. Her palm plants against the trunk, fingers digging into bark, and the sight almost ends me.

My girl bent over stone, one hand on the bench, one against the oak, taking me like she was built to turn every rule I have into a weapon.