Page 137 of You Found Me

“Della.” His voice was low growl. He lifted her so that her toes barely dragged across the ground. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist and squeezed.

He drove her back against the wall and she gasped as the family photos bounced.

He was hot and hard against her thigh. The idea that he was clearly ready for her made her shudder with a need that demanded satisfaction. Now.

She dug her heels into his backside for encouragement.

He made a guttural, almost feral, noise and turned toward her bedroom.

“Don’t,” she whispered. She tilted her hips into him. “Here. Right here.”

“Not good enough.”

She giggled as he carried her down the hallway, then squealed as he threw her onto the bed. When he didn’t immediately follow her, she froze. Had he changed his mind? Was that a get-away-from-me toss?

She looked up at him.

The mask he usually wore was gone, replaced by a stare so hot and hungry it set her on fire.

She was really glad the lights were on. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his towel.

She wanted to tattoo the image of him standing there gloriously, unselfconsciously naked onto her brain. He was solid, with muscles sculpted by years of hard work. He had the look of someone who knew what he wanted and planned on taking it.

But instead, he turned and walked toward the door.

“Hey, where…,” she started to protest.

“Shhh.” He reached the door, shut it, and locked it. “No more talking.”

His stare lit her on fire.

She shut her mouth.

He flicked off the lights.

It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. She felt more than saw Ward climb onto the bed. He climbed on top of her and straddled her, his knees near her hips. His hands traced the front of her flannel shirt to cup her breasts through the soft, worn fabric.

Moonlight played with his bare muscles, accentuating the shadows and making him look even more sculpted than he did indaylight. It was a scene right out of a Greek myth, the kind where the god appears in the night to seduce the mortal woman.

She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been the one dressed while the man was naked. They usually unwrapped her like a present and then stared at her. She always wondered, in those moments, who they were in bed with: her or the woman they thought they saw onstage.

Ward looked at her like he saw right through the stages, the spotlights, and the parties to the woman underneath. He looked at her like she was the only thing that would satisfy his hunger and he communicated it all without saying a single word.

This had to be the single most erotic moment she’d ever experienced.

It made her feel powerful, to have him so exposed and so obviously excited while she was covered up by something that could double as a tablecloth.

She delighted in the feel of his body pressed against hers and the sure, steady strength of his hands.

She moaned her encouragement.

He kneaded and caressed and massaged from her breasts to the top of her panties, pulling her shirt this way and that as he went. The sensation of fabric against her bare breasts made her want to crawl out of her skin and into his.

She arched into his hand.

In one sudden, uncontrolled movement, he found the edges of her shirt and ripped it open. Buttons flew off and pinged against the floor or the nightstand or the ceiling.

She sucked in a breath as a rush of cold air tickled her nipples. Tingles raced across her exposed skin in response.