Spinning Out(The Blackhawk Boy #1)(46)

           



       

My breath catches at that thought-Arrow imagining how he'd touch me. "You think about it?"

His gaze drops to my mouth before returning to meet mine. "I think it  might bother you if you knew how much. Or if you knew that touching you  has been my primary fantasy since the day we met. Even when you were  his, my imagination always made you mine."

My body seems to hum at his confession, a taut string on a cello rubbed  long and low with the bow. Stepping forward again, I bring my hands to  my shirt. I undo one button then the next then the next and his eyes  follow my fingers. My hands drop to below my navel as I release the last  between his eyes and my bare flesh. I let the shirt fall from my  shoulders and slide my hands beneath the waistband of my skirt to push  it from my hips.

The phrase turned on gains new meaning. I've been walking around shut  down until he came home and turned me back on. Right now there's nothing  that could make me feel as alive as his eyes on me, and I have it.

He's staring at me. His eyes ask a thousand questions. The thrumming  pulse in his neck and the accelerated rise and fall of his chest give me  all the answers I need.

I step closer, and my nerves are no fight against my need. Another step.  His eyes skim over my breasts and over my simple black satin bra.  Another step. Now I could reach out and touch him.

I take his good hand and press it against my chest. "I'm alive."

He drags his bottom lip between his teeth and nods. "You are. And so beautiful."

I trail his fingertips over my bra and down over my stomach, bring his  hand back up, and guide it to cup my breast. He doesn't resist but he  doesn't initiate a single touch. I lead his hand to explore my torso,  the dip above my hipbone, the curve of the bottom of my belly, the  hardening swell of my nipples.

He stares at me with parted lips and pupils so wide there's nothing but a thin line of honey brown left of each iris.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and I press his hand flat between my breasts  so he can feel my beating heart. "I didn't die that night, but until you  came back into my life, I wasn't living. Every breath hurt until it  didn't hurt at all. Until I felt nothing. You make me want to breathe  when before I just wanted any excuse to stop."

He slides his hand out from beneath mine and lifts it to cup my jaw. I  lean into the heat of his touch, and he lowers his parted lips to skim  over mine in a movement that is less kiss than it is sharing air.  Tilting his head, he follows a path over my cheekbones and down my jaw,  then shifts his hand aside to give my neck the same treatment.

I draw in a ragged breath and another. "Arrow." His parted lips skim  over my collarbone, and I shudder. "Touch me. Please. I let go today,  and I'm alive and free, and I can't think of anything I want more than  for you to show me what you think about when you imagine touching me."

He lifts his head and looks into my eyes, and I don't know what he sees  there, but it must be the answer he needs. His hand slips off my jaw and  behind my back to release my bra. He watches it fall to the floor then  dips his head again, barely skimming each breast with his mouth before  he sinks to his knees before me and hooks his thumb under the band of my  panties.

His touch is life. Heat. And every cell in my body feels like a blooming  flower craning its neck to be closer to the sun. I slide my hand under  the lace.

"Don't." I freeze at his words, and he nods. "Let me take my time."  Gazing up at me from his knees through those thick, dark lashes, he  looks less like a lover and more like a man at worship. "Let me love  you, Mia."

At the sound of my name on his lips, I shudder. The muscles between my  legs tighten in a pleasure and ache so intense, I sway toward him  without meaning to. He gives each leg the same torturous treatment he  gave my breasts-a skimming of his lips. A tease. He's sampling me like  wine, and I want him to swallow me whole.

With nothing more than the slight pressure of his fingertips, he leads  me to turn so my back is to him. I feel him at the backs of my thighs,  the wet heat of his breath followed by lips so soft my knees buckle and  he has to tighten his grip on my hip to help me steady myself. Then  slowly, so slowly I want to beg, his lips follow the path halfway up the  back of one thigh and then the other. He's not kissing me, but his lips  move against my skin, and gentle puffs of air lead his mouth one aching  centimeter at a time, as if he's whispering his way to the top of my  thighs.

Only when he reaches the lace of my underwear does he finally use that  hand at my hip to draw my panties down. They drop to the floor, and I  step out of them, but before I can turn, his hand returns to my hip, his  grip more aggressive than before. This time his mouth is open-hot, wet,  and firm at the top of my thigh. He sucks, and I cry out. In pleasure.  In pain. In desperation. He releases, then sucks again harder-marking me  and ruining me in ways that go far deeper than this skin.                       
       
           



       

When he pulls back, my skin feels cold where his mouth was. He turns me  slowly and rises to stand in front of me, releasing my hip and holding  his good hand up for my inspection. His fingers tremble like every inch  of me, inside and out.

"Do you see what you do to me, Mia?" he asks, and a surge of power  rushes through me. "Do you understand why I can't walk away from you,  even when I should?" His eyes are heavy with lust, his words laced with  something else entirely-that desperation I've gotten used to seeing.  That fear of hope.

Instead of letting my heart crumble for him, I focus on his shaking hand  and bring it to my mouth. I press a kiss against his open palm. "I  don't want you to."

His hand finds my jaw again, then his fingers thread into my hair. He tilts my head to the side, studying my face.

I suck on his bottom lip and push his boxer briefs down over his thighs.  His hips buck toward me, and I'm filled with such a rush of power,  practically dizzy with it. I find him between our bodies and wrap my  hand around his length. He gasps against my mouth. It takes my breath  away to be this close. To touch him like this.

He cups my breasts, squeezes, teases one nipple, then the other, until  I'm making sounds I don't recognize-moans, whimpers, pleas for more. He  lowers his head and draws me into his mouth sweetly, sucking softly. I  tunnel my fingers through his hair and let my head fall back as the heat  takes over my body like liquid that starts at my fingers and toes and  fills inch by inch inward. I'm nothing but heat, and the need to be  more, to feel more, pulls low in my belly and presses against the  muscles between my legs.

He guides me to lie back on the bed and follows me, resting on his  elbows and framing my face with his hands. When he settles between my  legs, I gasp and swallow hard. We've been here before. Done this before.  And yet this is all new. We're both bare tonight, our excuses left  behind in the back seat of his Mustang. Our defenses have been left at  the gravesite where we watched Brogan lowered into the earth.

He shifts his hips, stroking against my entrance. His neck strains and  his jaw tightens. "You're sure?" I lift my hips in answer and he pulls  away. "I'll be right back."

He leaves the room and returns with a condom. He stands beside the bed  and rolls it on before lowering himself back onto me. When he slides  into me, I wince, and he stills before retreating.

"You were a virgin that night." He grazes his knuckles over my cheek and swallows. "I wish I'd known."

"I was afraid you wouldn't touch me. Afraid I'd never have the courage again." I lift my hips. He gasps as he sinks deep.

"Christ, Mia. It's-"

"I know."

I stroke down the side of his jaw, trail my fingers over his shoulders  and chest, stopping to press my open palm against his beautiful beating  heart. Something changes in his face. He drops to his elbows, trapping  my hand between our bodies and burying his face against my neck.

He trails kisses along the side of my neck and over my shoulder while he  moves inside me, and he seems so sad. Like this isn't the beginning of  something new but the end of something treasured.

"Roll over," I whisper.

He rolls to his back and watches me with awe-filled eyes as I climb to straddle him.

"Watch me."

"I couldn't take my eyes off you if I wanted to." He skims his hand down  my chest and over my stomach and lower to find the sensitive piece of  me where our bodies meet. My back arches and I move my hips faster. I'm  so full. So aware of every touch. Alive.

I rock into him, letting him fill me and stroke me, and when my muscles  coil and squeeze, I hold his gaze for as long as I can, feeling the  pressure build until I liquefy and explode, and he comes with me.