If I thought he had a magic ability to light me up all kinds of ways with just the words bouncing off it, I've learned it isn't half of what he can do when it's against my skin.
Landon's mouth owns me. Leaves burning hot kisses and angry little bite marks over my chest, my stomach, my hips, my thighs, then delves between my legs.
There, lost in my folds, is where he pulls me apart. Sharp, clutching pleasure comes as his tongue circles my clit, traces my labia, dips inside, drinks from me like every last drop he coaxes from my flesh will leave him intoxicated.
His mouth works my pussy to the brink. Expert teeth pull me apart with a growl, make my clit a willing prisoner for his tongue, all while his stubble leaves delicious burn marks on my thighs. I ride his face for all I'm worth, before I'm whimpering his name.
“Landon!” Oh, hell. “Landon, fuck!”
I can't.
I need to come on his face, if only he'd let me. But this man knows my own flesh better than me.
By the time he lifts me up, wraps my thighs around his waist, slides his cock deep inside my body, I’m ready to fly right off the edge. He takes me in slick, deep, rhythmic strokes that make my heart race and my blood burn like napalm, turning me into someone I don’t know.
I’m not one of my heroines, wanton and sure of her sexuality.
I'm not this crazy, wild girl who becomes a complete sex addict for anyone – much less this beast shaped like a man who's swung my heart wild like a kettlebell for the past ten years.
I'm totally not surrendering every fiber of my being to Landon Strauss and all he's been: lover, hater, destroyer, protector, friend, foe, best and worst and final word.
But actually, when I'm stripped completely bare, shaking on his naked body, I can't deny the truth.
I am.
With him, I feel so much I can't escape it, can’t deny it, can’t control it – and I writhe with pure and utter abandon as he plunges deeper, harder, faster, pushing closer and closer to his end.
I watch that lost, tortured, beautiful expression taking over his face while he's holding me. I don’t even know what pushes me over – his touch, his manic strokes, or the way he looks at me – all his human wilds tethered to me.
For me.
I just know that when my body goes tight around him, when he hits the perfect spot inside that makes my vision go white and my breaths turn ragged...
He’s ruined me.
He's ruining me right now as he locks his arm tight, fisting my hair, growling his pleasure as he drives deep one more time and unloads his pleasure into mine.
He's ruined me forever.
He’s ruined me for anyone else, and I’m gladly letting myself be torn apart.
*
He’s also made walking in a straight line difficult.
I should be used to this, after the last two weeks, but when I get up and try to follow him into the shower my legs are pure jelly and my spine feels like cooked spaghetti.
He knows it, too, judging from the smug look he keeps giving me. Ass.
But he’s my jerk-ass.
Sort of.
I totter into the bathroom, and twenty minutes later, he’s got to lift me out of the shower after pinning me against the wall. The man's libido is relentless. I can't show a flash of skin anymore if I don't want to be absolutely ravaged – and, of course, I do.
I'm trapped face-first against cool tile while hot spray pours down over us both and my voice rings off the shower walls. He's busy making these low, animalistic sounds against my back while he ruts against me, skin to slick skin, turning my depths into a swollen-soft mass of silk that thrills at every touch, every stroke, every vicious thrust.
I stand on the tips of my toes, rocking into him, enjoying the loud slap of his balls on my skin.
I don't last long. He fucks straight through my first orgasm and keeps on going, a tattooed train of a man. “Legs apart, Reb. Take it fucking deep for me,” he whispers, thunder in his voice as he shifts my thighs open.
He holds me tighter as he pulls his pleasure from my body. My breasts sway, pendulums shaken by everything quintessentially Landon Strauss. I'm on the ledge in no time at all again, and this time, he falls with me.
The heat of his release burns into mine. I'm making sounds in the back of my throat I didn't know I could, milking his cock with everything I have. It blurs in the sweet delirium of him growling my name, his balls heaving everything into me.
Mercy.
I’m a wreck after, gasping and dizzy. He’s gentle and tender and considerate. Wiping me off with a washcloth, letting me lean against him, wrapping me up in a cozy towel and carrying me from the shower into the bedroom.
I kind of hate him for still being able to stand after doing that to me.
Twice in a row.
Jerk-ass, again. I wish I could decide if it's an insult or a show of affection. Maybe both.
He’s just setting me down on the bed when a rattle comes from downstairs, clattering and loud and a little too familiar.
Landon goes tense, eyes flashing as he stiffens with a growl.
“If that brat just came waltzing into my house again, I swear to Christ, Buddha, and Krishna...”
I groan, flopping back on the bed in a tangle of wet hair and damp towel. “I'm glad you're invoking all the major powers. Because, I don't exactly have the patience to deal with her right now.”
“Too bad. Remember, you’re my shield.” He winks, setting me a little at ease, even if there’s a tight edge to it. “Get dressed, Reb. Time to greet the company.”
I give him a sour look and kick one foot out to push at him. Not that it does any good, landing on his rock-hard stomach and not even making him tilt.
He catches my foot, lifts it up in a way that spreads me pretty embarrassingly, and then he kisses my ankle – but his eyes aren’t on my foot.
There’s no doubting where he’s looking, eyes glinting, that grin turning devilish. I squeak, yanking my foot back and drag the towel over me. His gaze leaves a delicious burn between my legs.
“Don’t you even start!” I mutter, cut off by another clatter from downstairs. My heart jumps into my throat, remembering the intruder. “Ugh. I don’t want her to hear us.”
“So, you’re possessive now? I'm liking the new you, Reb.” He winks again, then sidesteps, dodging the pillow I throw at him, laughing.
It’s like that the entire time we get dressed. Completely detached from the serious situation.
Teasing, stealing kisses, trying to be quick but fumbling over each other when we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other or stop laughing.
But I manage to get my jellied legs into a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a button-up sleeveless shirt that shows off my C-cups more than I normally would, the top button undone. I keep my hair loose and shower-tumbled, spilling in wild waves all around me. I skip the glasses for now, tucking them into my pocket, even if it means a bit of a blur more than five feet in front of me.
Look, I’m not preening. Or showing off.
I just want Milah freaking Holly to get a really good look at what she thinks Landon shouldn’t want.
And maybe I feel a little buzz in my veins when Landon slips his hand in mine before we head downstairs. He’s already steeling himself, his expression blanking, shoulders and jaw tight.
His hand grips mine a little too hard, but it doesn’t really hurt, and I don’t want to pull him out of what’s clearly a preparation for war. I just squeeze his fingers tighter, reminding him that I’m here, and square my own shoulders as we round the wall into the kitchen.
There's another shock waiting.
A tall, regal, graying woman stands at one of the open cabinets, murmuring under her breath in a softly cultured accent while she meticulously organizes Landon’s scattered dishware by color.
It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but I recognize her air immediately.
Shirley Strauss.
Landon’s mother.
My face blooms hot, and I let out a mortified squeak, letting go of Landon’s hand and hastily buttoning the top button of my shirt over the small glimpse of my bra I’d let out.
Oh my God. Oh my God.