Free Impassion (Mystic) by B. C. Burgess Page A

body.
    “Quin!”
    “What?”
    She struggled to breathe as she pushed on his chest. “Stop.”
    “Or what?” he challenged, sliding a hand to her thigh.
    She yanked in air as she stretched for his neck, and in her desperation, she sucked harder than she’d intended. His game ceased, and she softened, puckering around his strong pulse.
    “Mmm…” he murmured. “You could calm a battlefield with those lips.”
    She slid her fingers into his hair as she pressed closer, kissing again and again; and it made her heady, as if he’d bathed in wine. He swept her hair aside, exposing the sensitive dip between her shoulder blades, and as his hand spanned bare skin, she quivered with an internal throb she’d never felt before. Her heart stuttered then sped, and warmth surged her veins, intensely flaring in some areas while soothing others.
    The hand on her thigh flexed around fluctuating muscles then slid to the tender spot below her hip, leaving a charged trail in its wake. She twitched as he gathered her skirt in his fist, his sigh floating through curls to stimulate her scalp. Then he unfurled his fist and extended his fingers, grasping her pelvic bone and butt in one firm handful.
    Searing heat rolled over her, curling her in before stretching her out, and her muscles stiffened as her cheeks flamed. She knew she must look like an idiot—eyes shut, head tilted back, chest heaving—but she was too rigid with arousal to do anything about it.
    He released her hip, taking her jaw instead, and she pulled in a shaky breath, steeling herself to look at him. But before she could open her eyes, he tilted her head further back and lowered his mouth to her throat. His lips swept over tingling flesh, finding her pulse. Then his tongue slipped out, lingering through several beats.
    Another flood of desire engulfed her, and she curled her fingers in his hair as her body craved more. Delicate spots had never yearned more than they did then. They absolutely needed to be touched. They screamed for it… for him. Just by kissing her neck, he’d scrambled her common sense and erased all logic, inseminating her with a longing to be anything he wanted her to be.
    In a brief moment of clarity, Layla wondered if that was his goal—if he was trying to get her so worked up she’d let him take her to bed. Then she forgot to care as his mouth slid to her collarbone. She arched, and her starving hips tilted, pressing into him on their own accord.
    His kisses suddenly stopped, and his hand clutched her hip, firmly pushing her away. “That,” he whispered, steaming up her throat, “I can’t handle. I’m sorry.”
    Layla shuddered, suspended between pleasure and pain and afraid to speak for fear she might actually tell him to take her to bed.
    “We can kiss all night,” he added, “but if you want me to behave, I’m off limits from the waist down.”
    Layla still couldn’t talk, not even after forcing herself to swallow. Her body wasn’t ready for it to be over, and she thought her hips might betray her if he gave them half a chance.
    A long moment of silence passed. Then his lips left her neck, deflating her lungs and loosening her muscles.
    “Layla?”
    “Yeah?”
    “You okay?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Are you upset?”
    “Are you kidding?” she laughed, opening her eyes. The urgency had ebbed, leaving her rejuvenated. “That was amazing, Quin. I’ve never felt that way before.”
    “That’s a shame,” he noted, sliding his gaze down her body, “because you handled it beautifully.”
    Her cheeks grew hot as she shyly bit her lip. “We should do it again sometime.”
    “You trust me to hit the brakes?” he asked, finding her eyes.
    Layla wasn’t sure what she was getting herself into, but she knew she liked it. “We’ll see,” she said, getting to her feet.
    He quickly stood and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Hey.”
    “Hey back.”
    “Want something special?”
    “I already have too much,” she