Wild(62)

            “I hate that you might have been with him. That I taunted you into it. I want him to eat my fist if he even touched you, but it won’t change anything between us either.” His chest lifted on a breath. “I want you, Georgia.”

            I sucked in a ragged breath. I’d backed up into the kitchen area. The table bumped the backs of my thighs.

            “I-I wasn’t with him.” I didn’t have to tell him this, but the starkness of his gaze, the bluntness of his words compelled the words from me.

            His features eased with relief. His eyes roamed my face and his voice came out hoarsely. “Tell me to leave.”

            I blinked, confused and bewildered at the request. He stepped forward another pace until we were chest to chest.

            My senses reeled, overwhelmed at his closeness, the push of his chest against my breasts, the breadth of him surrounding me.

            “Tell me to leave,” he repeated, his hands reaching for the hem of my dress. His gaze held mine for a fraction of a second, but I couldn’t find my voice.

            In one swift move, he pulled my dress over my head, leaving me pressed between him and the table in nothing but black panties and bra.

            The only sound was the distant hum of the bar below us and the rasp of our breath.

            “Tell me to leave,” he repeated, his voice harder, his eyes like flint.

            When I didn’t say anything, his mouth covered mine and he simultaneously lifted me up on the table. He broke away for a split second to pull his shirt off, not giving me nearly enough time to appreciate that sight, and then his mouth came back down on mine, kissing me so hard that my head bent back.

            With a move I could hardly process, he flicked open the clasp of my bra at my back. The black satin straps slid loose off my shoulders and I released my hands from where they clung to his biceps to shrug it free.

            My legs came around his hips and his bigger hands were under me, cupping my bottom.

            His lips moved against mine with the same request. “Tell me to leave.”

            Air crashed from my lips, fanning his mouth. I felt like I had sprinted a race. “No.”

            That single word spurred him to action. He was all movement again. Strength and power. His hands tore my panties off me, and I gasped, stunned and turned on and electrified.

            He didn’t stop kissing me. Never once. I didn’t know kissing could be like this. Long, drugging, endless kisses that squeezed the coil in my belly tighter and tighter. I didn’t want him to step back and put any space between our bodies. Even that brief separation would kill me. I was sure of it.

            I heard the snap of his jeans and the sliding teeth of a zipper. There was a crinkle of a wrapper and it registered through the haze that he had a condom.

            Oh, God. This was really happening. He’d given me plenty of opportunities to stop. To tell him to leave. This was my choice. I wanted this. I wanted him.

            He pulled back and I whimpered at the loss of him, biting my lip as I watched him roll on the condom. Some of my excitement edged into anxiety as I stared at the size of him.

            “Don’t do that,” he growled as his hands came back to my hips again and hauled me to the edge of the table in one sliding motion.

            “Do what?” I gasped as he lightly bit down on my throat. I cried out, pleasure-pain shooting through me as he followed the nip with a stroke of his tongue.

            “Think.”

            “I-I don’t think you’re going to fit.”

            “I’ll fit,” he assured, his hand diving between our bodies. His fingers glided against me, teasing me for a moment before easing one inside. I moaned. “See, Pearls. You’re so wet for me.”