The Wildcard

Chapter Thirteen

He’s my Kryptonite, and it was absolutely the worst moment for the stone to turn in the opposite direction, at least for me.

The sun always seems to burn so much brighter when it isn’t trained directly onto you, doesn’t it?

I pressed my mouth against his – mumbling and muttering his name- pleading it probably - even as he growled against me – his teeth clashing against mine as his tongue forced its entrance. Fisting his free hand in my chignon, he wrenched the pins from my scalp – the tug of hair almost painful had it not fit so perfectly with our mutual furious desperation for each other – my fingers were still frantically running over his flesh – pulling at buttons and material that was in my way.

Arousal was a raging furnace in the pit of my stomach as I grinded my lower body into his – my hips circling and retreating until I felt his hard, thick arousal nudging into my core and I cried out against his lips in a cry of pure, unadulterated desire laden liberally with a feverish anguish for completion while he trailed kisses down my throat and pulled my conservative work clothes away from my overheated skin. His palm spread against the bare skin of my lower back once he’d pulled away my shirt, urging me closer to him with the white heat that coiled out from beneath his fingertips where he touched me. Our breaths emerged frantic and panting as I began to tear at his clothes again – my fingers trembling with the anticipation as I tried to work at the clasp to his trousers in between almost angry, lust fuelled kisses.

His lips against mine were punishing and cruel, hard and ruthless, just like the man himself, and I was almost rolling over the waves of my own orgasm from the intensity of his kisses alone.

I couldn’t get enough of him – I can’t ever get enough of him – and the mere thought of him turning away from me felt more like abandonment than anything I’d ever faced in my life.

It drove my need for him to unimaginable depths, that thought, even as I’m sure fear was simmering away somewhere in my subconscious, I was blind to everything except this driving compulsion to remind him what he wanted from me.

Which was pretty fucked up, really, if you think about it.

“Jodie, wait!” he growled out against me, his hands suddenly gripping my wrists in the middle of their frenzied movement – stilling them momentarily.

“What is it?” I rushed out – my mouth dry from the yearning, desperate gasps I’d been crying out. My eyes were glazed and unfocused, but I managed to catch his features after a second.

“I ...” he arched his neck back against the sofa cushions, one hand leaving my wrist to cover his beautiful eyes as he groaned in frustration, “Fuck, I feel like such a woman!”

His voice barely more than a mutter, I struggled to make it out. And then I struggled a bit more to make out what he was trying to say at all – because if there’s ever a time a man should feel like a woman, this sort of wasn’t it – and my eyebrows dipped into a frown.

What the fuck?

I said as much. Sort of. I was probably a bit more diplomatic than that.