Damaged (Boys of Winter #2) - Sheridan Anne Page 0,86

stand here, not saying a word, with his dark, stormy eyes boring into mine, the more intense it becomes.

I have to have him.

Why the fuck are we fighting this attraction? I have to feel his skin on mine, feel his lips roaming over my body as his fingertips knot into my hair. I want his sweet words whispered into my hair as his tight grip curls around my waist. I need to feel his thick, veiny cock slamming up into me and taking it all away.

I need him to make me forget everything.

I have to have everything that he is, and I have to have it now.

Fuck it. I don’t even care if he pushes me away.

I storm toward him, instantly throwing my hand around his neck and jumping up into his open arms. My lips crash down on his as my legs wrap around his waist. It’s free falling from the highest peak and not knowing what’s waiting below, but the journey down is the most exhilarating ride I’ll ever take.

Carver’s lips tangle with mine as we fight for dominance, just as we always do. His kisses are bruising but I welcome it, needing it harder, needing so much more.

He spins me around until my ass is dropping down onto the workbench, and the idea of knives, guns, ropes, and weapons just sitting right beside me only seems to get me hotter.

Grabbing his shirt, I tear it over his head and instantly wrap my arms back around him. My hands roam over the tight muscles of his back, exploring every inch of it as my legs tighten around his waist and draw him in until his hard cock is pressed right up against my pussy.

It screams for him as wetness floods me. There are too many clothes between us and not enough time. I need to feel him inside of me. I need to crush this ache that I’ve felt for him since the second I met him.

Dante. Fucking. Carver.

Take the goddamn wheel.

I give up control and let him take whatever the fuck he needs.

Who gives a shit about the sound of blood dripping down the drain? Who cares that a dead body hangs just beside us, still with a gentle sway? Who cares that my body aches from beating the living shit out of him with a baseball bat?

All that matters is his lips on mine and his hands roaming over my body.

Carver reaches around me and grips the material of my cropped tank before peeling it over my head. It’s instantly thrown away, and as one hand comes down on my bare skin, the other unhooks my bra with a simple flick of his wrist.

My bra falls between us and he pushes in even closer, needing the feel of my skin right up against his, just as desperately as I need it. “Fuck, Carver,” I groan, panting heavily. “Touch me.”

He complies all too easily, and within seconds, his hand is at my waist, slipping inside my jeans. He finds my center and with a quick, hard thrust, pushes two thick fingers straight inside my dripping core.

I groan deep, his lips falling to the sensitive skin of my neck as his fingers work my pussy like magic. He winds me up so easily and it’s as if he knows my body better than I do. “Winter,” he breathes my name so softly, his breath skimming across my ear and making everything inside of me clench.

His fingers slide in and out of me, curling at just the right spot as my pussy drenches his hand with my excitement. I grind against him, needing more, but if I push it too hard, I’ll be coming within seconds.

Carver works my body as though he was fucking made for it. His fingers pinch my pebbled nipples while his tongue roams over the soft, sensitive skin below my ear, answering every silent prayer I send his way.

There’s no other way to put it. It’s simple. Dante Carver is a fucking god and I’m the luckiest girl who ever lived.

A soft moan slips from between my lips, and as if calling for him, as if he can’t possibly get enough, his lips come right back to mine.

My body burns, my release building higher and higher. “Come on, Winter,” he urges me in a deep, guttural groan, his voice speaking to the darkest places within me and filled with a demanding authority. “I want your tight little pussy to come on my fingers. Give me