He frowns in confusion.
“Remember the time in the laundry room?”
He growls, and it’s the sexiest sound, deep, masculine, and rough. “I remember everything,” he says, then he sets his hands on my shoulders and spins me around.
One time when we were doing laundry late at night, he pushed me up against the two-stack of dryers and did unspeakably erotic things to my neck.
Kisses that made my knees weak.
That soaked my panties.
That made me so primed to come.
He grabs my wrists, slides my hands up the metal rows, and pushes them flat to the mailboxes.
I shiver.
Releasing his hold on me, he says, “Don’t move your hands.” He drags his thumb over my wrist. Then up my arm to my shoulder. He cups my jaw, brushing his thumb along my face.
I nearly melt.
I always liked it best when he took over.
Sure, our kiss last night was outrageously passionate, and I started it. But I like to give him the keys. Tyler is a pursuer. He likes to chase, he likes to catch, and I like to be caught.
That’s what he does now, pinning me with his body. His chest is sealed to my back, and with one hand he gathers my ponytail and moves it off my neck. With his other hand holding my jaw, he gently, but firmly, stretches my neck to the side, exposing the flesh for him.
He dusts a kiss on my collarbone.
My stomach flips.
Then another. His lips travel across my neck, along my hairline, down to the top of my spine. He kisses me everywhere, imprinting his lips all over my shoulders, my collarbone, the back of my neck.
I moan, and he presses his cock harder against me. That only makes me moan louder.
“You missed this?” he asks, his voice smoky and ridiculously sexy.
“So much,” I admit, and it’s the whole damn truth.
“I bet no one else has kissed you like this.”
“You’d be right.”
“And did you miss this?” he asks, then sucks on my neck, hard. “Or this?” He nips me with his teeth.
“I did,” I say, my breath coming fast.
“But maybe you missed it more like this . . .” He bites down harder, and I shudder.
The fireworks show begins. He kisses harder, his lips crushing against my skin, his bruising kisses turning my world hazy.
He kisses the shell of my ear, and the fireworks explode. When he bites down on my earlobe, I am nothing but tingles. Everywhere. Just everywhere.
A door creaks somewhere. Maybe above us. He freezes, and I want to care that someone is around, but I want him more. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he tells me, as the door closes and silence once more surrounds us. There’s just the squeak of pipes and the far-off pads of footsteps on floors above.
I just don’t care who’s coming or going, because if anyone decides to get mail at this early hour on a Saturday, they’ll surely turn the other way when they see us—his mouth all over my neck, his hands traveling down my sides, me pushing against him, seeking as much closeness as I can get.
His hand slinks to my belly, splays over my shirt. He yanks it up and presses his palm against me, flesh to flesh, and it feels so damn good.
“The things I want to do to you,” he murmurs in my ear as he plays with the waistband of my running shorts . . . “Strip off your clothes.” Tugs at the material . . . “Bring you to the bed.” Dips a finger inside my shorts . . . “Spread those gorgeous legs wide open for me.”
I groan. I am nothing but flames and sparks and heat.
“Would you like that?” he growls, low and dirty in my ear.
I answer with a nod, as wetness gathers between my legs. I’m dying for him to touch me, I’m praying for him to taste me, I’m wishing for him to fuck me.
Even though the rational part of my brain knows I’ll only allow one of those three right now, I want them all. I want all of him.
“I’d put you on your belly, and kiss you everywhere. I’d drive you wild,” he says, then slides his fingers lower into my shorts, tangoing with my panties.
I want to fuck him. I want him to fuck me. I want him to slide his fingers inside me and know what he does to me. I rock against him, seeking more with my body. “Please,” I murmur.
He shoves his hand inside my panties all the way. “Jesus Christ,” he groans as he touches me.
I can’t speak. I can’t say anything. My mouth falls open, and my entire body crackles.
“Look at my sexy angel. So fucking wet for me.” He slides his fingers through my wetness, and groans with each glide and stroke. “My sexy angel still gets turned on by me. Is that right?”
I pant out a yes.
Another stroke, and I shudder. A whole body shudder.
“You’ve never been this wet,” he rasps out. “I’m thinking you might still want me.”
I moan my agreement.
“And I bet you still think about me.”
All the time, I want to say, but he knows from my body that I do.
“Do I fuck you when you’re alone? Do I put you on your knees and take you?”
I nod as his fingers part me, and my whole body vibrates. Dear God, this man gets to me.
His chin brushes my ear. His breath is hot against my skin. “What else do I do to you when you’re all alone?”
“Everything.”
“Your favorite thing?” Tyler’s mouth scrapes against my shoulder, the bristles of his chin rough and hard.
I shake. White-hot tension grips me, tight in my belly, and it courses through me, flooding me as he sends me closer to the edge with his words, and his hands, and the reminders of how he owns my body.