Devoured - Cathryn Fox Page 0,18

it actually empowers me, makes me a little more brazen.

I lift my chin, unafraid. “What exactly are you suggesting?” I ask, my voice laced with need. As he stares at me, another thought hits. What if he starts something, only to laugh and walk away? Do I have it in me to survive his rejection twice?

“Why don’t we see just how much you’re going to hate me touching you.” He cocks his head. “I told you I was committed to this charade, and it’s clear we’re going to have to know what we’re dealing with if we want to pull off a fake marriage.”

“An experiment then. Hmm, I think—” My words fall off when he closes the distance between us, pulls me to my feet and grabs a fistful of my hair.

Heat courses through me as he tugs, none too gently. I breathe in his freshly showered skin as his head dips, his lips close to mine. His gaze moves over my face, and his rapid-fire breathing washes over my flesh as his lips twist.

“Do you hate this?” he asks.

“Yes, I hate it,” I say, my voice deep and raspy from arousal.

Kiss me, already.

His big hands grip my sides and slide upward, his touch like fire to my skin. He stretches out his thumbs and brushes them over my nipples, effectively shutting down my brain. I moan and his resulting grin arouses me even more.

“Do you hate this, Peyton?” he asks, his voice a bit shaky. Maybe he’s not as in control as he seems. Do I, Peyton Harrison, his best friend’s kid sister, have the ability to rattle his composure and lance his self-control?

Let’s see if I do.

“Yes, I hate it,” I say, and arch into him.

“I can tell.” His thumbs tease my tight buds, his touch flowing through me, teasing the needy spot between my legs. One hand slides up my leg and he grips my hip, his touch taunting the cleft between my thighs. His fingers bite into my skin, a rough touch that feels far more sensual than a gentle one.

“How about this?” he asks, and plants his mouth on mine. His kiss is hard, deeply brutal and bruising. Everything about it sends a sharp spike of need through me. I moan into his mouth and my hands slip around his big body, taking pleasure in the heat of his skin. His tongue plunders, tasting the depths of my mouth as he rubs himself against my stomach. My God, I love what I do to him.

He tears his mouth from mine and cups my breast. “What about this, Peyton?” he asks as he weighs my aching breast in his hand. “Do you hate this?” My voice disappears on me, so I moan instead. He cups my other breast and kneads me in his palms. “Moan for me. Show me how much you hate it.”

My head falls back and I moan louder. It spurs him on. He dips a hand into my shorts, and with the rough pad of his finger, he circles my clit. “I bet you hate this, too.” I gasp as he strokes me, his finger slick and wet from my arousal as it thrums against my clit. “What about here, Peyton?” He inches a finger inside me, to the second knuckle, and goes completely still when my sex clenches around him. “I bet you’d hate it more if I tossed you onto that bed and put my cock in here instead of my finger.”

“Ohmigod,” I cry out, his rough touch and crass words doing the craziest things to me.

“Would you?” he asks, his finger still unmoving inside me, like it’s some kind of cruel punishment. I try to buck forward, try to drive him in deeper, damn near ready to lose my mind, but he grips my hips and holds me still, a knowing grin on his face.

“I would totally hate it,” I say.

“How much?” he asks.

“I guess I don’t really know. I guess you might have to do it before I can put a measurement on it.”

“Hell,” he growls, his mouth skimming my body as he sinks to his knees. He grips the elastic on my cotton sleep shorts and drags them down, just enough to expose my sex. He inhales me deeply, then exhales and my muscles contract as his hot, shuddering breath strokes my clit. He stares at my sex with heat and hunger, and he wets his lips as he parts me with his finger.

“Jesus Christ, Peyton.” Tortured eyes