Fuck. I hope it’s not cold feet. I don’t blame her. I’m probably going to hell for this, but I need her so badly I’ll break if we stop now.
She surprises me as always.
Brina swats my hand away from her panties and comes up on her knees. “Play fair. I’m down to a flimsy piece of lace, and you’re still dressed...”
She trails off, this hot, playful redness glowing on her face like a halo.
I grin.
“If you want this off, you need to be naked,” she whispers.
Lucky for her, I can handle that rule.
19
Sweet Perfection (Sabrina)
“You’ll be the death of me,” he says, staring down at me with eyes so hot I think I’ll walk out of here with a sunburn.
How did I even get here?
On my knees. On my boss’ bed, wearing nothing but my panties.
I swallow hard.
Because I know it’s not my boss. Not King Asshole. Not anymore.
It’s just Mag, and what was unbearably wrong just became right.
“Then you’ll enjoy your last moments on earth,” I whisper, my voice husky, unlike any tone I’ve ever heard.
Holy hell. This is what he does to me.
And he leans down then, bringing his savage mouth back to mine. The passionate kiss makes me frantic, and I slide my hands under his shirt, moving them up and down.
He sighs.
I walk my fingers down his chest, under the waistband of his boxers, tracing circles into his bare skin. He’s a slab of a man, skin like velvet stretched over solid rock in all the right places.
My eyes go to the huge pulsing bulge in his pants. It looks like it’ll rip through the flimsy fabric in a second and claim me.
My fingers push to the top of his pelvis, stroking faster circles from one hip to the next, making me hotter and wetter by the second. Every touch forces me to think about what the power in those hips could do to me.
Can I even take him?
“Sabrina, fuck.” He chokes on my name, two words dragged across sandpaper.
Hearing him so aroused, so drunk on me, sends a tremor down my spine. I walk my fingers back up, teasing his skin, edging my fingers deeper in his flesh, into rock-hard muscle.
When my hand falls down, grazing the crop of hair below his abs, I gasp.
“You weren’t supposed to stop,” he growls, moving his hand over mine, holding it to his body.
Clasping a fist around my fingers, he leads me down, and wraps my hand around every unseen inch of him.
He’s hot, alive, and throbbing like a piston.
Mag’s hell-blue eyes drill into my soul as I feel him jerk in my hand, flexing, making me imagine what he’ll do once he’s deep inside me.
Oh, hell.
It’s hard to even breathe.
All I can do is pull back, licking my lips, eyeing the hot sauna pools whirling in his eyes.
I need a distraction, so I wrap my hands around either side of the cotton t-shirt he’s wearing and yank it over his head, then run my hands down his bare chest. He brings an arm behind my back, pulling me closer, kissing me with the force of an angry god.
Call me shameless, I don’t care.
I’m past worrying about how I moan, collapse, and melt in his arms.
Especially when our tongues dance a mad ballet, and when he traces my bottom lip with the most sensual groan I’ve ever heard in my life. Several rough fingers hook inside the waistline of my panties again.
Mag!
“Not yet,” I sputter, breaking off the kiss, gasping for air.
He presses his lips to mine, tasting the inside of my lip, a quick and fleeting kiss.
“I’m not fully dressed anymore. We had a deal,” he reminds me.
I shake my head, forcing back a smile.
He looks so deliciously grumpy I want to laugh.
“No way, mister. You’re still wearing too much.” I loop my fingers around the waist of his sweats and pull them down, then shove him against the bed.
Well, I try.
He pretends I can actually move him and falls back, flopping down, grinning up at me.
He laughs. “If we act like you’re in control, will you get the hell over here and fuck me?”
I suck my bottom lip, lost for words.
“Brina. Get over here,” he snarls again, reaching up in a flash, wrapping his hand around my hip.
He tumbles me against him, hoisting my hips up to connect with his. The last thing I ever imagined was Magnus Heron having a playful side—in bed, no less—but I’m already in love.
I lean over him, clasping each of his massive shoulders, lightly rubbing his skin with my nails. Once I know he’s holding me up, my hands move from his shoulders, arcing down his chest, frolicking across his canvas of granite muscle and the wild ink on his arm.
He presses me against him, taking one breast in his lips, sucking my nipple. He leaves me no choice but to clench helplessly, digging my nails into him.
“Oh, God.” The moan escapes my lips. “Mag, yeah.”
For him, those words are magic, pure sorcery.
He nibbles, caresses, and sucks as I massage.
I shift to the side so I can rub down the length of his arm, admiring his strength. His hand comes up to cover my other breast.
I’m on fire, but I want to tease him the way he torments me.
I want him to want me like he’s never desired anything else.
It takes all my willpower not to grind against him, not to slide my panties off and throw his boxers across the room, not to impale myself on the dangerous hard-on I feel against my thigh.
Not yet.
I need him to quench this raging thirst.
Closing my eyes, I sigh as his thumb rolls over my nipple.
“You really enjoy these, don’t you?” I ask.
“They’re the finest pair of tits I’ve ever seen, touched, or sucked. A perfect handful and perfectly natural, but what I love most is the sound you make when I go to town. No question.”
Yep. I’m done for.
It’s a miracle his blue-eyed hellfire doesn’t set the whole room ablaze.
I smile and sigh, rubbing my fingers into the meat of his palm, between his fingers. I move back to his torso, rub his abs down to his briefs, slide my fingers under the elastic, and glide off his lap so I can finally remove them.
His thick manhood springs free, just as insane as I thought it’d be.
I take it in my hand, ready to tame the beast.
Mag works his fingers down my belly while I’m still standing. A sultry rush knifes through me when he fists my lace, jerking it past my knees.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his eyes riveted between my legs, his nostrils flaring like he can smell how wet I am.
Dying.
I may not survive this. But if that’s the way it goes, tell everyone Brina Bristol died in ecstasy.
Mag pulls me in so we’re face-to-face, then throws me on the bed, shifting us so we’re on our sides. He strokes the inside of my thighs, rough hands on silky skin, up to the crease where my legs meet.
He traces both sides, worshiping my inner thighs, before his fingers are in me.
“Oh!” I scream, legs shaking, then cover my mouth because I don’t mean to be so loud. “S-sorry.”
“These walls are thick. The boy can’t hear us so far away,” he says, a wicked smile turning up his lips.