Beth Andrews - About That Night

Ivy let her gaze drop to his mouth, linger there as she ran her tongue across her bottom lip. “Do you really want me to disappear?”

His fingers tightened, his nails digging into her skin. Though it killed her not to touch him, not to close the distance between them and press her mouth against his, she kept her hands in her lap. Stayed perfectly still. She’d meant it when she’d said the next move was his. He may not like playing games but he was participating willingly in this one. And far be it from her to take away the man’s belief that he had the upper hand.

As long as she was the one holding the best cards.

His hands slid up her arms slowly, across her shoulders. He stabbed his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, his thumbs nudging her chin up. Her mouth parted. Her breathing quickened.

He tugged her forward. Later, much later, she would worry about that. About how he’d turned the tables. How, instead of coming to her, he was bringing her to him. But for now, with his palms warm against her cheeks, all she could think about was his touch. His kiss.

His head came closer, his features blurring. She wanted to shut her eyes, to lose herself in sensations, but she couldn’t look away. He paused when their mouths were inches apart. The air surrounding them stilled. Thickened. All she could see was his face, all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears.

All she wanted was him.

His breath washed over her, and she made a sound in the back of her throat that could only be described as needy. Dear Lord, he hadn’t even kissed her yet, and she was already acting like a fool, her brain fogged with desire. It was humiliating, needing him this much. It was dangerous, being this weak for a man. If Ivy wasn’t careful, she’d lose her good sense and her pride.

She couldn’t make herself care.

She lifted her hands to his chest, curled her fingers into his shirt and yanked him to her.

Yes , she thought as their mouths met. This was what she wanted. The flash of heat. The heady desire. His kiss was hard and hungry, his lips firm. Beneath her hands, he was solid. Warm. She’d expected finesse. Control. After all, he had both in spades. But what she got was an answer to her own desire, one that matched it. A heat that threatened to consume her.

His fingers tightened on her hair, the bite and tug ramping up her excitement as he tipped her head to the side to deepen the kiss. She slid her hands over the hard planes of his chest, up to his shoulders. Down his arms. He tasted of whiskey and smelled like heaven. She wanted to rub against him, imprint the feel of him on her skin, absorb his scent into her pores.

She pushed him back, trapping him between her and the back of the couch. His hands raced down her back, then smoothed up her torso, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. She shifted, lifting her leg only to give a grunt of frustration when her skirt trapped her. Not breaking the kiss, she rose onto her knees and pulled the material up her thighs, then straddled him so they were connected, chest, belly and pelvis. He lifted his hips, had the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her.

She playfully bit his lower lip, then ran her tongue over it before fusing her mouth to his again. He felt wonderful. Even better than she’d imagined. All lithe muscles and carefully contained strength and power.

She couldn’t wait to make him lose that control. To be the one to unleash that power.

He pulled her shirt out of her waistband, slid his hands under the fabric, his nails lightly scraping her spine. She tore at his buttons, her fingers clumsy. Frantic. One button snagged, and she jerked it clear, leaving it to dangle by a string. She worked the rest free, shoved the shirt down his arms, where the sleeves bunched at his wrists.

Breaking the kiss, he sat up and yanked the shirt off, tossing it aside. He leaned back, the ridges of his abs bunching, his pecs well-defined. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders. Combed her fingers through the springy golden hair covering his broad chest.

She kissed him. His lips. His cheeks and chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. His cologne was intoxicating, the taste of his skin enticing. She nipped at the pulse that was beating rapidly at the side of his neck, then slid lower, her belly brushing his hard length as she worked her way down his chest. She flicked her tongue over one nipple, and he groaned, so she repeated the action on the other side. Opened her mouth over it and rubbed it with the flat of her tongue. His breathing quickened. His hand shot to her head, his fingers digging into her scalp.

With a satisfied smile, she trailed her mouth lower. She swirled her tongue, tasting his skin, then leaned back so she could watch her forefinger follow the light trail of hair disappearing into his pants. She dragged her finger up to his belly button then added a second for the return trip. Up and down again, two fingers became three. This time when she went up, she laid her hand flat on him, felt his muscles jump under her touch.

She lifted her gaze to his. He watched her through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She drew her hand down, down, down. When she reached his pants, she raised the heel of her hand, her fingers skimming over his belt buckle before she settled her palm on him.

He inhaled with a sharp hiss, pushing himself harder into her hand.

Indulging herself for a moment, she cupped his impressive length, reveling in his groan. She slid down to kneel between his legs, her fingers at his belt, loosening the buckle, eager to feel the heat of his skin, the weight of him.

He stood suddenly, in one smooth move, and she squeaked and grabbed hold of his shoulders as he lifted her. His hands went under the backs of her thighs, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he strode toward the bedroom.

She complied, looping her arms around him and threading her hands in his hair as she pressed her face against the crook of his neck. “I was just getting to the good stuff.”

“Bed.” The word was more of a growl than actual speech. She lifted her head. Grinned. She’d reduced the man to barely decipherable, monosyllabic grunts.

She shouldn’t be so pleased, but damn it, she was.

He stepped into the room, shifted her weight to one arm and flipped the switch on the wall, turning on the lamp next to the king-size bed.

“For what I want to do to you, cowboy,” she murmured, flicking his earlobe with her tongue, “we don’t need a bed.”

His step faltered—not a lot but enough for her to notice. His fingers tightened on her legs. “We do,” he insisted as he carried her across the room and followed her down to the mattress, “for all the things I’m going to do to you.”

Her stomach churned. From excitement, she told herself. Okay, and maybe just the tiniest bit of fear, but not because she was afraid he’d hurt her. Because she was afraid of not being able to keep control.

He kissed her again, his mouth voracious, his hands seeking. She tried to get her control back, to keep the power firmly on her side, but his mouth was hot and hungry. He made it hard to resist responding with no care to the little sounds she was making, to how her hands were clutching him, how her head was spinning.

He tore his mouth from hers, and she almost cried out. Tried to pull him to her again, but he resisted, began working the buttons of her shirt, sliding them through the holes one at a time, his moves slow and controlled. His eyes followed each new inch of exposed skin.

She reached to help him, to hurry him—and he lightly slapped her hands away. Gave his head a quick shake. “Mine.”

The one word, grumbled and insistent and possessive, went through her, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.