Layla
We arrive at Blake’s condo, and he parks the Rubicon in his assigned spot. Neighbors mill about walking their dogs, bringing in groceries, and sitting on their patios, like most folks would on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. Laughing, we run up to his door hand in hand. Carefree and a little bit dangerous, like we’re a couple of teenagers ditching school to go make out.
He makes quick work of the door lock and I’m pressed against the wall, pinned there by his hips, before the door shuts behind us.
He doesn’t kiss me like I thought he would. Instead, he plants his hands on the wall on either side of me, caging me in. “Mouse.”
“Snake.” I know what he wants. Permission. It’s sweet, but he’s going to have to stop treating me like I’m breakable. I smile and tilt my head.
A low groan vibrates up from his chest. “Don’t want my rebellious girl. Not now when I’m aching for you. I want my Mouse.”
His Mouse. I like the way that sounds.
He leans in close, his lips only inches from mine. “Been waiting too long for these lips, sweetheart. That drive was ridiculous.”
“Yeah, it was.” I laugh and curl my hands behind his neck. “Okay, Snake. I’ll bite.”
“Yeah? I like it when you bite.”
I suck a ragged breath into my lungs. How is it that he can seduce me with nothing more than his words? “Kiss me, Blake. Touch me.”
An agonized moan that sounds more like relief than pain slides from his lips as he brushes them against mine. “Fuck, is this really happening?”
Tilting my head and parting my lips, I give him my mouth as an answer, letting him dive in deep. His hands tangle into my hair, and he holds me close. Our tongues slide against each other’s in a slow dance timed to perfection. No awkward slips or messy coordination, but like we were made to fit together. My belly tightens, twisting with delicious expectancy.
He grips my hair tight, and the pleasure-pain shoots straight to my nipples and womb. I arch my back, pressing my chest into his in search of the needed friction. He slides his hand down from my hair to my back. One tug at the tie of my bikini top and his hand skates up to work the tie at my neck. The top falls between us, and our bodies press together skin to skin. Warmth from his chest penetrates mine. His muscles flex against my nipples, and a wave of pleasure washes over me.
He curls his big arm around me and grabs my bottom. Pulling me up, my legs wrap around his waist, and he carries me down the hallway. Not once breaking our kiss, I squeak in surprise when I go airborne and land flat on my back on his bed.
Standing at the edge, his eyes devour my topless body as he unlaces his board shorts. He moves his gaze downward, from my bare chest to my belly, before focusing on the waistline of my linen pants. “Need those off. Shoes too.”
I’m lying on my back, and there’s a trained fighter who’s double my size looming at my feet, but I’m the one with all the power. Blake has proven that my feelings are his main priority. And the hunger in his eyes, combined with the response his body is proudly showing, makes me feel sexual and dominant.
I hold my foot up toward him. “Nu-uh. You do it.”
He smiles a crooked smile and bites his lip. I stare, envious that it’s not my teeth sinking into the plump flesh. I lick at my lips, savoring the taste of his tongue that lingers there.
His shorts hang dangerously low on his hips. A light sprinkling of sandy brown hair trails from his belly button and disappears beneath the waistband of his shorts. His muscles flex as he pulls off one of my wedge sandals, then the other. My eyes eat up his body with gluttonous satisfaction, and I study his tattoo.
The illustration of the world with an anchor through it looks almost three-dimensional. Its detailed shading contains so many variations of gray that it almost seems to be made up of colors. Amazing. The eagle stands on top of the earth with its wings spread proudly. Above it, printed in striking bold letters, is Semper Fidelis. That, I know, means “always loyal.” But below the art, on his ribs, is something else in flowing, scripted letters: Si vis pacem, para bellum.
What does that mean? There’s a story there, but I’ll be damned if—Ooooh…
Blake’s big strong hands rub circles into the soles of my feet. I drop my head back onto the bed. “Mmm, that feels good.”
He chuckles, his laughter laced with arrogant pride. “This ain’t shit, Mouse. You’re in for a lot of feelin’ good.”
My tummy somersaults. I know he feels like he’s on a mission to reform my no-climax status, but I hope he’s not disappointed when it doesn’t happen. “Um… don’t expect too much. You’re dealing with sixteen years of bad programing.”