Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(41)

It’ll take time to get home, though. I don’t want to wait. I want her now.

I move up against her back while she’s drying her hands and reach around, plucking the towel from her fingers. I toss the towel on the counter and slide my hands up to cup her breasts.

“Nick…” she starts, but doesn’t add anything else. Since she doesn’t tell me to stop, I keep going, pulling her nipples taut through the fabric of her shirt, her apron.

Fuck this—that apron has to go. I let go of one breast long enough to untie the laces, then I pop the neck strap over her head, letting the apron fall to the floor in a small cloud of flour dust. Kissing the back of her neck, I cup her breasts again.

“I’m not sure the Department of Health would approve of this,” she says, but at the same time she arches back against me.

“Considering we already did it once…” I let that trail off, and she chuckles. Her hands move back, reaching behind her to cup my head as I lean into the curve between her neck and her shoulder. She smells like sugar, honey, cinnamon. Honest to God, I may never be able to walk into a bakery again—any bakery—without getting a massive hard-on.

Speaking of which… I press my current massive hard-on against the small of her back, and she wiggles against it. I hear her soft chuckle and suddenly I want inside. Want nothing but to fuck her until she screams my name, until she can’t move. And, yes, to mark her again with my seed deep inside her.

“We should go home,” she says. “Do this in a more appropriate place.”

“No. I want you now. Right now.” I bite at her neck, and she lets out a soft noise.

Breathless, she says, “Not on the counter. Okay?”

“Where, then?” I don’t really expect her to answer. Don’t really want her to. Regardless of her concerns, I’m ready to take her right here. I reach around her and pull at her shirt, the buttons popping free from the buttonholes. I hear at least one hit the floor. She’s braless under it, her breasts full and plump and falling right into the curves of my hands. They’re warm—almost hot. I wonder how big they’ll be when she’s pregnant. When they’re full of milk, overflowing.

God. Never in my life have I thought about a woman this way. They’ve been little more than something pretty to have on my arm for a few hours, something warm to put my dick in for a few minutes. This is something else entirely.

This deal we’ve made means Sarah’s going to be with me for a long time. I’ll be taking care of her, protecting her. She’ll be depending on me, and it’ll be my duty as a man to be sure I don’t let her down.

I don’t know why the thought makes me want her so badly. Some primitive instinct demands that I mark her over and over again, be sure my smell covers every possible inch of her skin. I pull the shirt down from her shoulders, off her arms, let it drop to the floor. It’ll be covered in flour; I don’t care. I spin her around so she’s facing me, and I close my mouth over her breast.

She’s small enough it’s a bit uncomfortable to dip my head, so I pick her up and set her on the counter in spite of her small sound of protest. Fuck it. We can clean the counter. That’s what disinfectant is for. I dive between her tits and start biting.

Her hands go to my hair, but she’s pulling me closer, not dragging me away. I draw back a little to look at the red crescents my teeth have left behind on the tender skin of her breast. I lick the mark and then set my teeth to her nipple.

She gives a little gasp. I can tell I’m hurting her, but I can also tell she’s into it. Big-time. I push a hand down the front of her jeans until I find the wet crotch of her panties. She’s soaked. And she’s not pulling back and not telling me no, so I tighten my teeth a little more before I ease back and start to suckle.

Drawing my hand back out of her jeans, I pop the button and slide the zipper down, pushing the pants down her hips. She’s still got her panties on, but they’re not much of a barrier. I can slide my fingers under the hem next to her thigh and have sufficient access. I do that, three fingers going immediately into her, shoving upward. She grabs at my shoulders as I thrust my hand into her hard enough to bring her partially off her butt.

Opening her mouth, she starts to say something, but I stop her with my mouth on hers. Her grip tightens on my shoulders, her nails digging in through my shirt. I keep thrusting into her with my hand—four fingers now—and she writhes on me, pushing back down with every upward movement.

It’s not gentle. I’m not sure I’ve ever been gentle with her. She doesn’t seem to want it. I press my fingers up, curl them, and with the next thrust she falls apart around my hand.