Free About That Night by Beth Andrews

bed.”
    His step faltered—not a lot but enough for her to notice. His fingers tightened on her legs. “We do,” he insisted as he carried her across the room and followed her down to the mattress, “for all the things I’m going to do to you.”
    Her stomach churned. From excitement, she told herself. Okay, and maybe just the tiniest bit of fear, but not because she was afraid he’d hurt her. Because she was afraid of not being able to keep control.
    He kissed her again, his mouth voracious, his hands seeking. She tried to get her control back, to keep the power firmly on her side, but his mouth was hot and hungry. He made it hard to resist responding with no care to the little sounds she was making, to how her hands were clutching him, how her head was spinning.
    He tore his mouth from hers, and she almost cried out. Tried to pull him to her again, but he resisted, began working the buttons of her shirt, sliding them through the holes one at a time, his moves slow and controlled. His eyes followed each new inch of exposed skin.
    She reached to help him, to hurry him—and he lightly slapped her hands away. Gave his head a quick shake. “Mine.”
    The one word, grumbled and insistent and possessive, went through her, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
    Mine .
    Her arms fell to the bed, as if boneless. Panic suffused her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, not with his hands on her, his palms skimming her rib cage as he opened her shirt. Not with that word echoing in her mind.
    Mine .
    He slipped a finger under the front clasp of her bra, tugging it away from her skin, stroking his knuckle between her breasts.
    “I’m not yours.” She winced. Her words had come out in a croak and not the flirtatious, aren’t-you-cute-to-think-so tone she’d wanted. She swallowed. Tried again. “No delusions of grandeur, remember? I don’t belong to any man.”
    He kept up with the stroking, his other hand lightly holding her waist. “No, you don’t belong to me. But right here, right now, you’re mine.” He flicked open her bra and she wasn’t sure whether to be amused, impressed or irritated he did so with one hand. “You’re mine,” he repeated gruffly. “Just for tonight.”
    She wanted to argue, she really did, but he slid one hand up, taking his sweet time, until he reached the edge of her bra. He separated the cups, pushing them aside, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze. Then his hands were on her, and all ability to speak disappeared. He held her, his palms large and warm against her breasts, and she prayed he couldn’t feel the hammering of her heart. That he didn’t suspect what he did to her, how weak he made her.
    With a moan of appreciation, he lowered his head and licked one nipple before taking it in his mouth and sucking hard. He worked her other breast, his clever fingers pinching and tugging until she was gasping for breath. Until she was squirming beneath him.
    She touched his head, loving the feel of his hair, like cool silk, as the strands slid between her fingers. He kissed his way down her abdomen, held her hips as he dipped his tongue into her belly button. Her heart raced, her skin heated and became overly sensitive to his touch, to the light abrasion of his whiskers, the feel of his lips, the rough pads of his fingers.
    He pushed her skirt up in that same slow way—as if savoring every moment with her, every touch of her skin, every sound she made—bunching the material at her waist. His eyes narrowed as he reached out and lightly traced the edge of her black lace panties.
    “Pretty.” His voice was a low hum that seemed to reverberate inside her.
    Hooking his fingers in the sides of her panties, he pulled them down. When he reached her feet, he lifted her right ankle, took her shoe and the panties off then repeated the action on the left. She wanted him to hurry, needed them to get back to where they’d been in the living room, was desperate for that flash of