Fighter's Heart

Scene 18

Lena

At this point, my courage is fading fast. I haven't had a man in my apartment in ages. Especially not one like Jase, who could buy and sell it without even blinking, while I barely manage to make rent some weeks. I never brought Karson here. He always insisted on me visiting his place because it's literally a mansion—his favorite things are living in luxury, and showing off. But Jase doesn't seem to mind. His lips touch my forehead, and the gesture is so damn sweet I almost tear up.

"My bedroom is through here." Taking his hand, I tug him toward the door beside the sofa before I have time for second thoughts. The walls are painted cream, the bedspread is pale blue—the same color as my eyes—and I only have one set of drawers and a closet, which is packed full of the outfits and the jewelry I took when I left home.

A connecting door leads to the attached bathroom, where I store my makeup and cosmetics, but Jase doesn't need to see that, so I close it before he has time to peek. A pair of large, strong hands land on my shoulders, and his thumbs knead the tension from between my shoulder blades.

I moan. "Oh, my God. That's so good." I lean into his ministrations. "Don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His voice is husky and low, and reminds me of exactly why I invited him back here. I want this man to break my dry spell. I want the impressive erection I felt earlier sliding inside me. The sooner, the better. Before I start questioning my choices.

His clever thumbs continue working the tension from my back and shoulders, relaxing me bit by bit. He digs into a particularly tight knot and I whimper. He stiffens against me, his hands slipping, then recovers and dips his mouth near my ear.

"You make the hottest sounds."

If I didn't love the way he's touching me, I'd be mortified. Instead I push closer and brush my ass into the front of his shorts, feeling once again how much he wants me.

"If you take off your shirt, I can make you feel even better," he murmurs, his voice silky and so tempting it should be illegal.

Grabbing the hem of my blouse, I yank it over my head, then with a flick of my fingers, I dispose of my bra and present my bare back to him. Somehow, the fact I can't see him only makes it more erotic when I hear his quick intake of breath and feel the quiver of his fingers before he resumes the massage. His scent wafts over me. Deep heat and earthiness that's so masculine I can't stand it. Turning, I burrow my face into his chest, inhaling the wonderful manliness of him.

Instantly, his hands go to my tits, curving around them. Shivering, I rock into his lower body, and at the same time, whip his shirt up so I can taste the skin of his chest. He releases me and wrestles the shirt off, then gathers my breasts in his palms and drops his head to lick them. The tip of his tongue flicks my nipple, then the flat of it glides over, soothing.

"Oh. God." My knees quake. Clutching his head, I keep him there, forgetting my mission to explore his own naked chest, but that doesn't stop me from appreciating as much as I can see of it. Dark hair dusts him, enough to be noticeable, but not enough to be considered a pelt. The tattoos I've previously admired extend from his arms across his pecs, leaving a narrow strip of virgin skin down the center. In the future, I fully intend to trace the edge of his ink with my mouth. I'll never get enough of him. He's addictive as a double-whip mocha with hazelnut syrup.

His rough hands smooth down my stomach and into the waistband of my skirt, pushing it down. I slip it off, and then I'm standing in front of him in heels, the lacy scrap of my panties, and nothing else. He eyes me greedily, exactly like a virile alpha male who's denied himself pleasure for far too long. Which, you know, he is.