Текст книги "Playing with Fire "

Автор книги: Kate Meader

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

 CHAPTER NINE

Stepping into the back room of DeLuca’s Ristorante in Wicker Park was like time traveling to medieval Tuscany. The scent of an indoor herb garden wafted lavender and thyme beneath Alex’s nostrils. Hanging lanterns strung through indoor-planted trees painted it with the brushstrokes of a fairy tale.

They’d passed through a hallway next to the kitchen, and while the sweet tang of tomatoes and fragrant meats made her mouth water, it couldn’t compete with the intoxicating male spice of her dining companion. What in the name of all that was holy was she doing partaking of a late-night supper with Eli Cooper in what looked like a very romantic locale?

Strategy session, Eli had called it. They’d visited the Hawks locker room, where Alex had indulged in a spot of unabashed ogling—really to piss off her “date”—and had more photos taken. Eli had insisted on a debriefing about how the night had gone.

He pulled out a chair, so natch she walked around to the other side.

“Sit here,” he said, his fingers strumming the back of the chair.

Oh, he had been holding it for her. Surprise at his behavior dampened the spark of annoyance at his bossy tone. She walked back, but before she could sit, he started tugging at the shoulders of her parka. “Let me.”

She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and let him. With him standing so close, it was just as seductive as when he’d unzipped her jacket earlier on. More so. Because now he was behind her and there was something indelibly erotic about not being able to see him. Just feeling his breath hot on her neck, the ghost of his lips close enough to sin. If this was her reaction when he stripped off coats, how the hell would she not melt into a puddle if he moved to the next layer?

Which wasn’t happening.

He pushed in the chair as she sat and moved around to seat himself. All very date-like behavior . . . except no date had ever done that for her. There was danger in being impressed by a little chivalry. Just because Eli Cooper was polite to a woman did not make him any less of an enemy. He probably thought women with their pea-sized brains needed assistance with things like sitting and coat-doffing and . . . orgasms.

She bet he was really good at assisting in that area.

The server, an Italian woman with big, scary hair that Alex immediately empathized with, stopped by to take their drink order: a Glenlivet for Eli and a double Macallan eighteen year for Alex because it was expensive and the city of Chicago was buying. Alone at last, Eli stared at Alex for a long, skin-heating moment.

“I was right to insist you sit there. The light hits you perfectly.”

She swallowed around the lump the size of a bread roll in her throat. “Makes my hair look less frightening, I imagine.”

“Just highlights your natural beauty. You’re a very striking woman, Alexandra.”

She knew she wasn’t an ogre, but damn, it sent her stomach into a wriggle to hear him compliment her that way.

“No one’s listening, Mr. Mayor, so you can stow the sweet talk. Unless . . .” She looked over to the bar, where Eli’s security detail was sitting with a club soda, his eyes trained on the room, seeking out potential assassins. “Is there press here?”

“I doubt it, except for our citizenry, who are all press of a sort. If someone takes a photo and tweets it, then the night is a success.”

The pleasant wriggle in her gut turned uneasy. She was pretty sure she didn’t want her family or friends to get the wrong idea, especially as the wrong idea was so, so appealing.

“What about Thing? Does he get to eat?”

“Thing?”

“Craggy Face over at the bar.”

He smiled and pop! all hail the devastating dimple. “Hush, you’ll hurt his feelings. He has to go where I go, but ravioli would dull his reflexes.”

“Sounds like his presence might dull your love life.”

He laughed, and the sound nearly gave her a mini-orgasm on the spot. “Most women like the idea. It makes them feel important to be with a man who needs that kind of protection. So, speaking of love lives . . .”

“Were we?” She plucked a piece of focaccia from the basket and dipped it into an herbed olive oil.

“Tell me more about these miserable dates you’ve been going on.”

Miserable? Her cheeks flamed, remembering that Eli had been there a week ago when Michael Martinez dumped her in front of a roomful of watchful diners. Had the mayor been one of the rubbernecking observers? The memory of the detective flinching as she leaned in to brush her lips across his cheek still stung.

They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. At this rate she should be able to bench-press a Buick.

“You do not want to hear about my dating adventures.”

“What else are we going to talk about? Firefighters’ underfunded pensions? Our diametrically opposed viewpoints on whether a man should pull a chair from the table for a woman? I’d like to enjoy my meal, thanks.” He arched the mayoral eyebrow. “Tell me about your worst date.”

Well, there was the orgasmless one-night stand against the jukebox in her family’s bar a few months ago, but calling it a date was probably overstating it.

“Three words: spoken-word jazz.”

He chuckled. “And the best?”

This one. A conclusion that was so sad she should just go home now and drown herself in the kitchen sink.

“Clearly none, because I’m still looking.”

His eyes twinkled dangerously. The man was so handsome it tore at her lungs. “So how many men have you marauded your way through in the last year?”

Her swallow was audible. “Not seeing how that’s relevant.”

“Alexandra.” Spoken in that commanding tone that made her . . . oh, God, she was starting to love how he said her name.

“I’ve only begun putting in the effort lately. Online dating. Tinder, that kind of thing.”

“How many?”

“Thirty-four in ten months.”

Sexy lip twitch. “How many were second dates?”

Her silence was thunderously embarrassing. “I know!” she finally said after three seconds that felt like three hours. “You think I’m a freak.”

“Asked and answered long ago. Are you trying to win a bet?”

She tore the bread apart, needing to do something with her hands. “I’m just optimistic enough to believe that there’s someone for everyone, even an undateable weirdo like me. And if I cast my net wide enough, I’ll find it.”

It wasn’t as if she’d never had a boyfriend. After college, she was all loved up with Justin, who thought her firefighter fantasy was “cute.” During her three-year wait to get the call for CFD, she had worked as an EMT and racked up a shit ton of experience dealing with machete-wielding meth tweakers and bug-eyed violent winos. But Justin couldn’t handle it, and she couldn’t handle his suffocating concern. After she showed up for a date with a black eye sustained during a tricky run, it was adios, Justin.

She shoved a piece of bread into her mouth. “I even thought that this fake dating setup might put me in a different circle. Get me moving and shaking with better-quality talent.”

He frowned. “Politicians, aldermen, lawyers.”

“Baseball, basketball, hockey.” Feeling playful, but mostly needing to assert some measure of control over this awkward conversation, she peeked at him from beneath the veil of her lashes. “I like the idea of my kids being bilingual.”

The frown deepened. “For God’s sake, Dempsey.”

“What, is Bastian gay? Married? A nose picker?”

“He’s Canadian. Now, don’t get me wrong, some great things have come out of Canada. William Shatner, Leonard Cohen—”

“Bastian Durand.”

“Poutine, Nathan Fillion,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“You like Firefly?” He probably knew Nathan Fillion from Castle instead of from the greatest science-fiction TV show ever created.

“Only idiots don’t like Firefly, Alexandra. Canadians are also excellent at managing snow, but Durand is not your standard peace-and-ice-loving Canadian, he’s French Canadian. The Maple Leaf Frenchies add an extra layer of snooty with their smug.”

She rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t snooty or smug, he was interesting. He’s got a lovely smize.”

“Smize?”

“Smiles with his eyes. Tough guy, but not afraid to show his vulnerable side.”

Disgust crossed his disruptively handsome face. Eli Cooper wouldn’t know a smize if it struck him with a puck. “Of course he’s not afraid to show his vulnerable side. He plays hockey, which is for pussies.”

She laughed. “This is so weird.”

“What is?”

She gestured between them, unwilling or perhaps just unable to verbalize how much fun she was having. He was so charmingly sure, even when his assurance was invested in ridiculously incorrect opinions. And he liked Firefly.

“So what about you?” she asked. “The press never stops talking about your constant stream of marriage proposals. How many today?”

“Five. No, six. The fire has increased my stock.” His long fingers strummed the table. “Dating’s not so easy in my position. Fake dating is more my style.”

“Tough with all those women chasing you on your morning jog.”

He gave a self-deprecating smile. It undid her a little.

“When every moment is carved up and captured for public consumption, it can put a real crimp in your sex life. I have to be careful about how I approach that.”

Hmm. She had never thought it might be difficult for him, but she’d had a little taste of life in the public eye in the last few months, and hand to God, she’d rather have a root canal with a rusty nail. She especially didn’t enjoy how Finance Guy, aka Mr. Two-Pump-Chump, had set out for conquest in her bar so he could say he’d banged America’s Favorite Firefighter. Multiplying that by a factor of ten thousand and extending it for years as the most eligible bachelor this side of the Mississippi? Well, she would not enjoy that at all.

“You took the plunge once.”

“Never again.”

“Madison or marriage?”

“Both. She’s a wonderful woman, but it was a huge mistake, which we both recognized immediately. Your typical Vegas cliché. I was twenty-four, on leave from the Marines, and very drunk. We got it annulled a few weeks later.”

The hitch of relief she felt in her chest that he didn’t seem to have anything but a cordial relationship with his ex really bugged her. “You’re disappointing women the world over. Having a nice, loving wife at your side, maybe even a couple of cherubic offspring, would play better for your image.”

He considered this. “That’s the problem. Marriage is all about image. People marry for money, power, family, society, or just so they can have someone to sit on the couch with and watch Law & Order reruns. It’s for those who don’t have the inner resources to be happy alone. If you have to rely on someone else to be content, then it doesn’t say much about you.”

She refused to take offense because this was Eli, who offended with every other word. “So the fact I’m looking for something meaningful makes me desperate and incapable of tapping into my poverty-stricken interior life?”

“Different strokes, Alexandra. I can’t speak for you, but allowing someone that much control over my happiness sounds like a recipe for disaster. If I subscribe to that way of thinking . . .” He hesitated, as though seeking a way to reframe what he was saying. Not because he worried about insulting her, but because he wanted to get it right. “Putting all your trust into the hands of another person is dangerous. What if it’s the wrong person?”

It was a chance she was willing to take. “Hopefully, you’ll find out before any real damage is done.”

His expression turned stark. “Years can go by before you find out a person’s true colors. People always hide things, play parts.”

That was a very bleak view. She leaned in because this smacked of a weird significance, the why of which she’d examine later. “Politicians, perhaps. But that’s just an image you have to craft for your public, Eli. In your real life, you don’t have to hide. With the right person, that is.”

A flicker of what looked like pain in his eyes startled her. Maybe Madison had done more of a number on him than he let on, but her intuition told her there was more to it.

“Well, this has gotten very serious all of a sudden.” With a slight shake of his head, he picked up the menu and skimmed it. “Let’s start with the burrata, then the gnocchi with brown butter and sage, and—”

“You plan to order for me?”

He peeked up, and the light caught the blue-black of his hair and the shine in those shark’s eyes. In that carnal gaze, she felt hooked by the sensual lure of a man who knew what he wanted—and it wasn’t on the menu.

The mayor’s eye-fucking game? A-plus.

“A lot of women like when a man orders for them.”

“I think they like watching how your face lights up when you’re acting all omnipotent.”

“That’s a big word.”

“I’m a big girl.” Damn, that sounded flirty, but the atmosphere was conspiring to tear down every inhibition she usually had around him. Which, of late, wasn’t much. “Order away,” she added dismissively. “I live to serve you, sire.”

He looked pleased at her faux obeisance, and hell if she didn’t actually like the flutter of pleasure in her stomach at the thought of gratifying him. At the notion of obeying every wicked command that tumbled from his sensuous mouth.

She needed to remember all the stunts he had pulled and how much she disliked him. That underneath the quips, flirting, and enough sexual tension to set off the restaurant’s smoke alarms, they were actually at war.

“Two days later and I was still plucking bugs out of my bra!”

One bottle of Montalcino in, and Eli had learned three new things about Alexandra Dempsey. She was absolutely fearless: her tales of motorbiking solo around Vietnam after college (cue the bugs-in-her-bra story) had him alternately clutching his wineglass and suppressing concerned gasps. She despised the White Sox in a way he considered unhealthy. And she had collarbones that did strange things to his brain. He would never have considered himself a clavicle man, yet here he was.

This woman rocked the curves of Marilyn Monroe, the no-filter mouth of Chelsea Handler, and the spirit of Amelia Earhart. She was the real deal.

Aided by the wine and the stellar creations from Tony DeLuca’s kitchen, she had loosened up. Watching her eat had been one of the most pleasurable things to strike him in a very long time. She attacked her food with gusto, making nom-nom noises in the back of her throat that had him wondering how she would sound if she was to eat or lick or suck . . .

He hauled his mind out of the gutter. Long way to travel. “How did your family feel about you traipsing all over the world on your wild adventures?”

She made a face, suddenly someone’s younger sister. “Luke shouted at me for a month before I left and then a month after I returned because I contracted a teensy bout of malaria. He’s such an old woman sometimes. I thought it best not to mention that one time I was mugged in an alley behind my hostel in Hanoi.”

He buried his face in his hands. “Jesus.”

“Hey, the guy came out of that alley clutching the family jewels and wishing he’d never met me.” She grinned, and he had no idea if she was teasing him or if she had truly kicked the ass of some Vietnamese mugger.

“Never thought I’d empathize with Luke. I should hire you for security.”

The grin cooled. “Cute, Cooper, but you don’t really believe that, do you? You think the differences between the sexes make my gender a liability in my job.”

“You’re strong, quick, and clever, Alexandra,” he said honestly. “But I don’t think all women are as resourceful or as competent as you. Ask most anyone, man or woman, who they’d prefer carry them out of a fire and they’re not going to choose a female firefighter.”

An indignant crimp furrowed the spot between her eyes. “Men will always be threatened by a strong woman, and as for women, apparently it’s a female fantasy to have a big, burly fireman rescue them.” Her sigh signaled her annoyance at such sisterly treachery.

“And it’s my fantasy to have a sexy female firefighter give me the kiss of life.” He gave a sorry head shake and murmured, “And you couldn’t even get that right.”

“Got it right later,” she quipped, then blushed to the hairline of her crazy curls as she realized what she’d said.

He liked making her blush. Was she pinking up anywhere else right now? he wondered. Her breasts, her nipples, that heaven between her legs he dreamed of taking and holding him deep?

“It was a pretty hot kiss,” he ventured.

“I’ve had better.”

“No, you haven’t.” As he hadn’t, he was 100 percent sure the feeling was mutual.

There was no missing the flare of remembered pleasure in those stormy eyes before she lowered them and picked at the bread basket. Clearly seeking a change of topic, she said, “So, our dads were in business together back in the day. You said you’d met Sean.”

Feeling magnanimous, he allowed her to move on. “He used to come over to the house when I was a kid, long before he and Mary adopted you. I remember him as this mountain of a man, always laughing, a larger-than-life character. Later my father sold off his share in your bar to keep his financials aboveboard when he became state’s attorney. He planned to go into politics eventually.”

Her gaze softened. Not his intention, but a typical reaction. When your parents are murdered in your home while you hide away in an upstairs closet, it tended to unleash a woman’s maternal instinct.

“Please don’t.”

She blinked. “Please don’t what?”

“Give me that look, like I need a hug because of my tragic backstory. Poor little orphan Eli.”

“I don’t think you need a hug. I think you need a gag.” She took a sip of her wine. “You’ve certainly managed to parlay your tragic backstory into an advantage for your political career.”

Well played, Miss Dempsey. “A shockingly cynical viewpoint from one so young, but not wholly inaccurate.”

She smiled her pleasure at being right. Heart punch.

A sudden, long-buried memory rose to kick him in the gut. Sun streaming on cherry wood. Black earth falling with a soft thud. A man in a Chicago Fire Department dress uniform with eyes as relentlessly blue as the lake in summer.

His parents’ funeral was delayed because they needed to gather evidence and make sure nothing was missed before they were buried. For the case they would build later. But there would be no prosecution. Ronan Cutler, the mob boss behind the hit on his parents, was already dead in a raid on his estate two days after the murders, the triggerman with him.

The words of that uniformed man—Sean Dempsey—sliced through him now with a painful clarity.

Anything you need, son. We’re here for you.

A promise made to him the day of his parents’ funeral. A life credit he had never cashed in, and even though he had not availed himself of Sean Dempsey’s kindness, Eli knew it would have been given freely and without reservation.

Though he would have severed his left testicle before sharing that with anyone, Alexandra seemed to sense his discomfort as his memories claimed the quiet space between them. She reached for him and took his hand. He curled his fingers around her strong, elegant ones, and those words she spoke in that smoky hotel corridor came back in a gush.

I’ m here. I’m not leaving.

If anyone from the press were watching, it would be a lovely moment to capture.

A shockingly cynical viewpoint, Mr. Mayor.

He withdrew his hand, packed away the maudlin in his mind. She seemed to recognize the awkwardness and instead of her usual bull-in-a-china-shop proclivity, she stayed quiet for a blessed moment.

“Who did you live with after your parents died?”

“My grandparents on my mother’s side in Lake Forest. They were good people. Serious-minded, not given to great shows of emotion.”

“And they kept the house for you?”

It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned it. Why would he want to stay there, sharing space with all those ghosts?

“I lived a blessed existence in that house until I was twelve and it was shattered.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m not living there now to exorcise any demons. It’s the site of my fondest memories, so I’d rather dwell on that than what came later.” So it was quiet except for Shadow and he barely spent any time there, but returning to the house at the end of the day, if only for a few hours, was his touchstone. He didn’t think it morbid, but others invariably did.

“We do what we must to hold on to them,” she murmured, her finger tracing the lip of her wineglass. “Not a day goes by when I don’t think of Dad and Logan. After they died, it was the ordinary, most mundane things that hurt the most. Seeing the dent in Sean’s favorite armchair. The half-empty bottle of almond creamer. Logan was the only one who drank it, and I kept it until it was stiff and stunk up the fridge.”

She looked up, her face open, no artifice in her expression. What must it be like to enjoy such freedom to say and do as you please? Some days, it was all Eli could do not to rattle and scream at the bounds of this cage he’d built to contain his emotions.

Under the twinkling lights, with her pandemonium of curls, she projected an aura of strength and goodness and beauty. He wanted to absorb it into his bones and blood. Possess it—and her with it.

He wanted to do very wicked things to this woman.

“The zabaglione here is an old family recipe and absolute perfection, Alexandra. Care to share?”

“You didn’t have to take me home,” she said from the backseat corner of the SUV as they drove through the North Side’s icy streets. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Not really. The babies I need to kiss and the MILFs I like to ogle are all tucked away in their beds.”

With Tom up front along with John, his driver, returning to the intimacy of before was a no-go. They both seemed to recognize it, so they let the drive go by in silence.

A damned uncomfortable silence on his end, though. The image he’d had of her as he put on her coat after dinner was on repeat in his brain like an irrepressible jack-in-the-box. She had a great ass, high, well rounded, and it looked amazing in jeans. His hand would look so fine shaping it, kneading it, maybe giving it a little slap. Moving his fingers to the cleft and stroking through to find lubricating moisture—

He shifted to accommodate his hard-on, an issue that had plagued him all evening. Filled his mind with budget numbers, precinct voting percentages. His problem with Cochrane, which always managed to put a damper on his mood. On reaching her house in Andersonville, he was tempted to let her go without comment so he wouldn’t be tempted otherwise.

Get ahold of yourself, Cooper. He could see the woman he currently had nothing but a business deal with and who happened to hold a very low opinion of him to her door without molesting her. Not a storeroom in sight.

“Thanks for dinner.” Without looking at him, she exited. He got out, too, and walked behind her, ignoring Tom’s threatening glare admonishing him not to even think about entering that house without a security scan being done first. She fiddled with her key and pushed her front door open. “All safe now.”

Was it? He remained in place.

Her brow puckered. “You can rest assured your medal from the Order of Chivalry is in the mail.”

“Must everything be framed as a battle, Alexandra? I was merely being polite and walking you to your door.”

She huffed her annoyance. “You wouldn’t do it for a man.”

“I might. If he was puny or was carrying Super Bowl tickets and looked like he might be mugged at any moment.” He placed a hand on the doorframe a few inches from her cheek. “Instead of taking everything I say and twisting it to suit your own ridiculous biases, how about accepting that tonight we ate some good food, actually conversed like human beings, and for once didn’t want to gouge strips out of each other?”

She muttered something incomprehensible. Christ on the cross, this woman would be the death of him. It was like she was deliberately trying to pick a fight, get him riled, and—

A flash of recognition pinged him. “Are you embarrassed that we actually connected tonight on some other level than bickering?”

Even under the muted glow of a security light, he saw her redden. “Or maybe you’re worried that this new phase in our relationship will supersede the old one?”

“Any chance you could speak English like a normal person, Cooper? What the hell does that mean?”

He edged forward another step, pleased when she backed into the door. It fell open further, inviting them to privacy. To pleasure. “When we’re going at it, there’s an undeniable charge between us, wouldn’t you say?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. Softly.

“Your attraction to me scares you, but what also scares you is that there might be . . .”

“What?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“More.”

He fisted his hand in that lush wealth of hair and let his mouth hover over hers. Ostensibly to give her time to back out, but in reality, there was no unringing this bell. The die had been cast. He had to kiss her.

Given his warning shot, she shouldn’t have been shocked, but her lust-blown pupils broadcast her surprise. Her lips parted on a whimper and he took advantage because he was nothing if not a grasping opportunist. But he was fooling himself. The advantage was all on her side. She made a sound—half-purr, half-growl—and then threw herself into it. Her hands clutched his shoulders, her fingers dug in for leverage. Lost in her, utterly lost, he could only hold on, fighting the raging need inside him that was going to terminate with her back against the door while he drove deep into her wet, welcoming heat.

On a chilly North Side street.

While his security detail watched.

He drew back breathless.

Senseless.

Mindless.

“It’s okay to like me, Alexandra.”

“Not so sure it is,” she breathed through kiss-swollen lips.

She had yet to release him, those big green eyes staring at him with a heady brew of pleading and desire. Tom would have a fit if he stepped inside her door. So would Eli’s heart. But his cock would thank him.

He pushed her back.

“Eli!” she gasped.

“I’ll just be a second,” he barked at Tom. Eli closed the door. “Are we alone?”

“Yes, but . . . what do you think you’re doing?”

“Ensuring this thing between us doesn’t pass,” and then his mouth met hers before either of them could reason their way out of the inevitable.

Alex had fantasized about Eli, not just because he had kissed her in that closet, but long before that. Even when he was a jerk, it fueled her fantasies, because it was deliciously sinful. Taboo. A man she despised who got her engine running unlike any man she had ever liked.

So the fact that she now liked him maybe 5 percent more than she had six hours ago should have ruined the forbidden fruit thrill, but it did not. Her feelings for him were a clash of discordant sounds: he was the jackass who disrespected her, but now he was also the boy who’d endured so much, the man whose life she saved, the god she needed between her thighs. Such complexity, and it only heightened every sensation, layering one on top of another until she could barely breathe for wanting him.

He was an evil fucking genius. And he was kissing her mouth, her jaw, her earlobes.

“Eli,” she whispered as he fed hot kisses down her throat.

“Tell me to stop.”

Hell no. She shaped her hands to his broad back and pulled him closer, giving him her answer. The reason behind his attentiveness to her parka-removal needs earlier was now clear—he’d been practicing to bring out his big game later. Rather efficiently, her coat was slipped off her shoulders, her scarf was unwrapped, and then the zipper of her hoodie was inched down.

Skillz. He had them.

He hesitated, and the moment terrified her with all its weighted uncertainty, but all he said was, “Pink.”

Her favorite color—no, the irony didn’t escape her—and the hue of her bra.

In record time, that pesky bra was unhooked with astonishing ease and her breasts were lacking in considerable support. Until they were cupped in Eli’s very supportive hands. He pushed one strap off her shoulder, then the other, and exposed her completely to him. She felt his gaze, its sensuous weight on her skin.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re so damn beautiful, Alexandra.”

Alexandra. Before she had chosen to see his use of her full name as a chauvinistic reminder that she was a woman doing a man’s job. But she realized now how wrong she had been. Eli called her that because no one else did. Because he saw her like no one else could.

The out it provided felt liberating. She could be this new person with him, ceding control to his demanding desires. Let him tame her. Dominate her.

Own her.

He kissed the hollow of her throat, the line of her collarbone, and oh!—the pleasure that rocketed through her veins when his mouth latched on to her peaked nipple caught her off guard. Everywhere, she felt it. In her breasts and her belly. In her legs and her pussy. A tightening want that built with each soul-deep suckle. While his mouth drove her to the edge, his other hand palmed her ass, holding her core against his erection. Locking her into this prison of pleasure.

Throw away the damn key.

He unhinged his mouth long enough to rumble, “Get your other tit ready for me.”

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me.”

Moisture pooled between her thighs, his demand going straight to her clit. So bossy. So hot. Apparently satisfied he would be obeyed, he returned to lavishing attention on only one breast. It was crazily arousing that she could be so sensitive there, every nerve ending primed to ignite. That she could be this close—

To coming. Oh, God, she was going to come and he hadn’t even moved below her waist. Lost in a fever dream of Eli’s making, she cupped the breast not attached to his mouth and plumped it, stoking the fires of lust, loving how her fingers felt against her ruched nipples.

She was offering her aching breast to Eli Cooper like it was a rich, decadent dessert.

“You taste so fucking good,” he panted, his breath hot against her damp, tender peak. “I knew you would. I knew.”

“Please. Oh, God, Eli, please.” And then he accepted the sensitive flesh she fed him on a heartfelt groan, as if it were water after forty days in the desert. Her orgasm hovered on that sweet edge, tottered, and as Eli changed up his hungry suckle with a scrape of his teeth across her abraded nipple, crashed over. She screamed her release while her body rocked against him in jerky throes, and then went completely still.