God, he’s so right. I need to forget everything and just lose myself in the moment. Lose myself in him. Let go of all my troubles, my hang-ups, my wariness over getting involved with Gage. I want to feel his hands. His mouth. His tongue, his fingers, his . . .

He breaks away to blaze a trail with his lips along my jaw, down my neck. My hands are still pinned in his grip, and I struggle against it, wanting to touch him.

Needing to touch him.

“If I let you go, are you going to run?” He breathes the question against my neck, his teeth nibbling the sensitive skin.

I shake my head. No way am I going to run away from this, though a tiny voice deep inside my mind tells me I absolutely should, that I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life. “No.”

His grip gentles on my wrists, his thumbs sweeping across my wildly beating pulse. I shiver at the contact, shocked at how he can illicit my body’s response with the lightest of touches.

“I think I like having you trapped.” He pushes my hands together and grabs hold of both of my wrists with one big hand, his other hand sliding down my front, between my br**sts, one finger trailing down the center of my stomach to stop just at the waistband of my jeans, sending shivers cascading all over my skin.

“I’m sure you do,” I say, trying for sarcastic, but yet again, I just sound breathless. Needy.

Damn it.

A smile curves his lips, the sight of it taking my breath away. “I’d like having you this way even more if you were nak*d.”

Oh my God. I should tell him to go to hell right here, right now. We are so not doing this. Not doing it. Not doing it . . .

He slips his hand beneath the hem of my shirt, his fingers grazing my stomach, and I close my eyes, all protests, all thought forgotten. All I can do is lose myself in the sensation of his touch, the way his fingers curl around the waistband of my jeans before they move for the button. He undoes it easily, sliding down the zipper, brushing against the front of my panties, and I open my eyes, press my lips together to keep from crying out.

The jerk knows I’m holding back. His smile turns arrogant as he pushes first one side of my jeans down over my hips, then the other. He’s surprisingly agile with one hand, considering he’s still holding my wrists against the wall.

Not like I’d move them anyway. I sort of like being so open and vulnerable to his perusal. His touch.

God, why though? Why should I leave myself so open and vulnerable? Being with him makes me feel free. It’s exhilarating in the most scary, forbidden way.

He’s temptation personified and for once in my life, I want to completely give in to sin and not worry about the consequences.

“What are we doing?” I ask, my voice low. I need an answer. I need to hear that he’s just as lost to this as I am. If he says the wrong thing, I should put an end to it right now. Kick him out and hope like crazy I never see him again.

Liar. You’d be devastated if you never saw him again.

He lifts his head, slipping a finger beneath the thin elastic waistband of my panties, touching the bare, sensitive skin of my stomach. I hold my breath, waiting for him to slip that finger lower, wanting it between my legs. “Do you have to ask?”

Smug bastard. “I don’t like you,” I remind him. Reminding myself, too. I really don’t. He’s trying to buy up my family’s property so he can turn it for profit, and we’ll be left with nothing but some cash in the bank, our legacy gone. I need to focus on that. How he wants to end our presence, how he wants to squash my secret dream.

But all I can do is savor his touch and want more. More, more, more.

“Good,” he grunts. “I don’t really like you either.” All the while that finger trails lower, teasing down the front of me until he pulls completely away and out from beneath my underwear.

I feel the loss keenly, the bastard. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” He grins, leaning in to press his mouth to mine as he lets go of my wrists. “Don’t touch you? Don’t stop? Which is it, Marina?” He whispers the questions across my lips, his own hot and delicious. I’m torn. I don’t know what to do. I want him to stop. But then again, I want him to keep going. I want to know what it feels like to be with Gage.

Feel him move inside me. Know what he looks like when he comes.

Closing my eyes, I fight my inner battle. And surrender myself to him.

Gage

SHE’S A GORGEOUS sight, pressed against the wall, her jeans hanging halfway down her thighs, wearing the most innocent yet sexy panties I think I’ve ever seen. They’re white cotton, trimmed in delicate lace, the fabric so sheer I can see her pubic hair. A tiny white bow dots the center of the waistband, and the same silky ribbon ties around her hips, bows dotting either side of her.

I want to undo those bows and watch her panties fall away from her body. Then I want to get down on my knees and bury my mouth between her legs. I know she’ll taste hot and wild. I wonder how many flicks of my tongue will make her come.

Fuck, I’m beyond eager to find out.

“Come here.” She grabs hold of my tie—I think she likes doing that—and pulls me to her, my mouth falling onto hers. She opens for me easily, her tongue doing a wicked dance against mine that has me so hard I’m afraid I’ll bust through the fabric of my pants, I want her so damn bad.

I guess the kiss is her answer to my earlier question. I know I shouldn’t want this either. That if I think about it too much, I’ll put a stop to the craziness. Because this is crazy, without a doubt. She’s too prickly for me.

But the prickliness has all but evaporated, leaving a passionate, responsive woman in my arms. This woman shoving at my jacket until I shake it off blows my mind. What the f**k are we doing? We’re going to have sex in the kitchen of her bakery. I’ve known her for only a couple of days. I’m trying to buy out her family because they’re desperate for money.

And I’m trying to get in her pants because I’m desperate to be inside her.

She seems just as desperate, furiously attacking the buttons of my shirt before she yanks on my tie yet again, loosening it around my neck. I shrug out of it all then reach for her, pushing her shirt up and over her head, my mouth going dry when I see her br**sts barely covered in the white, lacy bra.

Rosy pink n**ples press against the lace as if they’re yearning to be free. I reach for her, flicking open the front clasp. The cups spring away, revealing her full, perfect br**sts, and I cup them in my palms, brushing the tips with my thumbs.

“Oh God.” She thumps the back of her head against the wall, her eyes sliding closed as I continue to caress her br**sts. I don’t want to stop touching her, watching her, enjoying her. She’s so damn responsive and I want to savor her, but my body—specifically my overeager and greedy-as-hell cock—has other plans.

Unable to resist, I lean in and suck a plump nipple into my mouth, lashing at it with my tongue, sucking hard. She threads her fingers into my hair, holding me to her, and I lift my eyes, watching her. My skin tightens in response at her expression. How lost she seems, how overwhelmed.

Fuck, I can’t wait to see her pretty face when she comes.

Within seconds we’re a flurry of hands and mouths. Clothes being shed until they form a big pile near our feet, shoes kicked off, condom retrieved from my wallet, until we’re both nak*d and panting, grinding against each other but not necessarily doing anything about it.

Yet.

I pull away from her to tear open the condom wrapper then roll it on my aching cock. I can’t wait to be inside her, can’t wait to pound my way to orgasm and lose myself in her at least for a little while. Forget the battle and the angry words and the fact that I’m stealing away her heritage, just focus on the two of us together. Connected.

She whispers my name, and I glance up, find her staring at me with wide eyes and parted, swollen red lips. I go to her, kissing her soundly as I grab hold of her by the waist and lift her up. She weighs nothing; my hands grip her perfect ass as she winds her long, smooth legs around my middle, and I press her against the wall. My c*ck poised perfectly to thrust forward inside her.

“You’re big.” She breathes the words, my erection pressing against the soft give of her belly, and I smile, reaching toward her so I can brush stray tendrils of wavy damp hair away from her forehead. She closes her eyes and releases a shuddering breath, as if she has to prepare herself for this moment, and I’m suddenly worried.

Is she changing her mind? Ready to back out? Fuck, I’m about to enter her. If I think about it too long, I could probably come like an overeager teenager if I don’t watch it. I want to make this good, I want to make it last, but not if she doesn’t want this to happen . . .

“Now you’re the one who’s thinking too much,” she whispers when I don’t say anything, amusement filling her voice.

I meet her gaze to see she’s smiling at me, the apprehension still lingering in her eyes, but I can’t worry about it now. Carefully, so slowly I know I’m trying to kill myself by torture, I enter her body for the first time. I register the quick intake of her breath, the way her body tenses up for the briefest moment as I push inside. The give of her welcoming body as I go deeper, all that silky, hot wet flesh wrapping around me, sends me straight into oblivion.

Closing my eyes, I hold steady, my racing heart roaring in my ears. I press my forehead to hers and swallow hard, trying to keep my shit together, but it’s so damn hard when she feels so damn good.

“Ohmigod.” Her words run together as she shifts against me, sending me deeper and we both groan. “Move, Gage. Please.”

I do as she asks, surprised at her request. Breathing deep, I pull almost all the way out, feeling her inner walls drag against my length before I plunge deep inside and she clings to me, a low moan sounding close to my ear. Her arms are around my neck, her face buried at the spot between my shoulder and throat. I can feel her lips move against my skin as she speaks.

“More,” she encourages. “Harder, Gage. Please.”

Christ. With that kind of encouragement I can have her bumping against the wall within seconds but I don’t . . . want to hurt her.

My brain registers this weird realization and I pause, swamped with confusion. I always ensure the woman I’m with is satisfied, but I chase after my orgasm as quick as I can like any other guy. Guess that makes me a selfish prick. I think Marina might’ve even called me a selfish prick today, or at least a variation of it.

Somehow, now that I’m inside her, I don’t want to be a selfish prick at all. I want to watch her, learn what she likes best. I want to see her eyes, her entire expression grow fevered as I continue to push and push with deliberate, sure strokes inside her body. I want to hear her breath catch, hear her whisper my name just before I make her completely fall apart.

And only then will I chase my orgasm. I want her satisfaction to come first.

I fill her, again and again, the slap of our damp bodies, the sound of our sighs and moans mingling together. Reaching between us, I touch her; she’s so drenched and hot. Circling her clit, rubbing it, I feel her tense all around me, squeezing me deep, and I close my eyes, hold my breath. Desperate to make myself last.