He bends his head, licking my nipple, then the other. He sucks on it, and small explosions start inside me. I can’t think.
After a moment, he draws back. His eyes are thin slits as he watches me, a focused expression on his face. Ropey muscles shift in his arms as he lifts and lowers me again, his breath coming out in a hiss. A vein thrums in his jaw. I put my hands on his chest, a safe place, then decide to lift his T-shirt and touch his bare skin.
Heat shoots through me at the sight of his hard chest, the defined six pack and, oh God, his small pierced nipples. I tug on one, and he groans, his head falling back, his cock flexing inside me.
I gasp and steady myself with my other hand on his chest, because I feel as if the world is tilting. God, pleasure spreads through me, spears me like a blade, and I can’t remember anything like it ever before. Can’t remember moaning like that, moving as if I can’t stop if my life depended on it, chasing my orgasm—and I can feel it starting deep inside me, so deep I know I’ll scream when it hits.
Oh shit.
He’s lifting and lowering me faster now, but he falters when I tweak his piercing again. He’s panting harshly, and I move my hand to the other small nipple. I hit the ball at the end of the bar, making it vibrate, and Zane chokes on a cry, his cock swelling and jerking inside me.
I do scream then, as I come, and the world goes white.
Zane grunts and slams me down harder, triggering more pleasure, and then he tenses, his hips lifting me up. He curses, teeth gritted, and lets out a loud groan as he rocks into me. I can feel him come, his cock pulsing inside me, and I clench again.
Wow. Can someone die of pleasure?
Zane rocks his hips a few more times, his face scrunched up, and then sprawls back onto the pillows, gulping air into his lungs. My hand is still on his chest, and I flick his piercing once more, just to hear him moan.
It’s strangled, and his cock twitches inside me. I gasp.
“Damn, girl.” Zane mutters and slaps my hand away from his nipple. A crooked grin lifts one side of his mouth, though, and his face looks more peaceful than it has in a while. “You trying to kill me?”
“I could ask you the same,” I breathe.
He slides his hands up my ribcage, then around my back and pulls me to him. “Stay,” he whispers, and I begin to nod, because it’s turning into yet another ritual between us, when he clarifies. “Stay here, until you find a place.”
My heart hammers in my chest. I want to ask him if he’s sure, if he’s thought this through, but instead I snap my mouth shut. Am I crazy? This is what I want.
He holds me close, and I lie on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, my hands resting on his shoulders, and I smile. I feel content. I feel happy. So happy I can’t even remember what scared me so much earlier tonight.
I’m in Zane’s bed. He’s propped up on his elbow, his hand stroking my back, and I can feel his body heat, so close. Close, but not quite touching. It lulls me to sleep, and I drift off, feeling safe and strangely at ease.
Next time I open my eyes, the sky is lightening outside the window, and I’m alone in bed. I roll onto my back, checking, just in case I missed a six-foot-tall guy lying next to me.
Nope. Zane isn’t here. I wonder if he even slept in the bed with me…
Good God, I’m in his bed!
The thought hits me like a snowball out of hell, and I sit up, suddenly wide awake. Frigging hell, I’ve slept in Zane’s bed, at his side—after some of the hottest sex of my life. Zane Madden, who doesn’t kiss and doesn’t bring chicks home, has done plenty of both with me.
And he asked me to stay.
This last thought is sweet and makes me close my eyes and smile. There’s a warm feeling in my chest, in my mind, when I think about him. Bad boy, melt-your-panties hot Zane wants me to stay. The combination of scorching sex, bad attitude and his softer, troubled side are driving me to my knees.
I’m still naked. My clothes are strewn on the floor, my skirt and blouse where I dropped them last night before crawling into bed. I grab my clothes and pull them on, but when I look for my underwear, I don’t see it anywhere.
Frowning, I glance around one more time. Nope, can’t see my panties or my bra.
However, I’m in Zane’s bedroom, and I just have to snoop around a little. I walk to the shelves by the window and trail my fingers over the few books stacked there. They are big, coffee table books. Tattoo Design, Drawing, Art over the Centuries, The Art of Dreaming.
Dreaming? I pull it out carefully. It’s a small book, a paperback, unlike the others. ‘What Dreams Mean’ the front cover declares, and I thumb through the pages. Symbolism of dreams. Recurrent dreams. Nightmares and the subconscious. Dreams and memories.
This chapter has a bookmark clip. ‘Is it just a dream or a real memory?’ the chapter starts, and I frown.
I remember hands on me, he said. Does he dream about them, too, I wonder?
Suddenly ashamed for going through his stuff, I put the book back. I’m about to turn around and go look for Zane, when a couple of photos taped to the wall catch my attention.
They’re actually print-outs on glossy paper, the image kind of grainy. One of them is a group photo taken at a party. It takes me a moment to recognize Zane in it. Younger, his hair falling in his eyes, a bright green, an arm around a boy scowling at the camera. I think I recognize those pale wolf’s eyes: Asher. Best friends forever, huh?
The blond girl next to him has to be Tessa, and she’s not looking at the camera at all. She’s staring at a broad-shouldered boy with a drink in his hand and a grin on his handsome face. Dylan. He’s leaning on the shoulder of a blond, slender boy, who must be Rafe.
Tyler is missing and so is Audrey. I wonder why.
The other pictures are harder to figure out. It’s a boy and a girl, holding hands. I’m pretty sure the boy is Zane, but he’s young and skinny, his hair closely cropped, his gaze wide and dark. I lean closer, studying him. Hard to reconcile that fragile boy with the strong man he is today, but the tilt of his eyes gives him away. The girl is taller than him, obviously older by a few years. She’s smiling.
In the next photo it’s them again, only this time the girl has her arms around the young Zane, and this time he’s smiling, too. Something tells me this must be his sister.
I hear a noise from somewhere inside the apartment and freeze. I wouldn’t want Zane catching me staring at his things, so I pad out of the bedroom. The divine smell of coffee leads me to the kitchen, and I stand at the door, peering inside.
The kitchen window faces east, and sunlight illuminates a patch on the floor, bathing the room in golden light. The cupboards are old-fashioned, white with curling handles, the table round and small, littered with dirty glasses and mugs.