I can’t pull my hand away, can’t stop touching him. His beard bristles under my palm, tickling, and my fingertips touch his cheekbones, moving over soft, warm skin, and his eyelashes, dark spikes.

He’s staring down at me, a hungry look in his eyes. I trail my fingers lower, over his mouth. It’s sinfully soft. God, he’s so frigging tall and broad and strong. So warm and alive.

So sexy.

A low growl leaves his throat, and in the half-light, he looks like some mythical creature, a dangerous creature lurking in wait for me.

I whimper, aching between my legs, and deep inside.

His body is tense, his arms trembling. When I trail my hands down his corded neck and forearms, his biceps are bulging, his hands fisted. I can hear his breathing in the quiet of the house, and it’s fast and ragged.

The spice of his sweat is making my mouth water. Pepper and musk and a hint of pine, shooting straight to where I’m aching to feel him. The need is so strong it’s a physical ache.

“You didn’t listen to me. You’re still here.” His voice is gravelly, hoarse. “You should go, girl.”

And maybe that’s what pushes me over the edge, undoing my last inhibition, my last fear, because I slide my arms up his strong chest, feeling his taut muscles under the thin fabric of his T-shirt, distantly aware I’m moaning softly at the sensation of those hard planes and ridges, that broad, powerful chest, rising and falling under my hands.

Of him so close to me, visibly struggling to keep from touching me, his strength barely contained—visibly aroused, his hot, hard length caught in his jeans, brushing against me as I shift closer.

It’s like petting a wolf or a panther, knowing he might snap his chain at any moment, that he might just stop purring and attack, bite you, hold you down…

Oh God, this is crazy, I can’t pull away, though I know I should. I’m dizzy with desire like I’ve never felt before in my life.

“Fucking hell, you’re still here, and I can’t…” His whole body is shaking now, and I feel every tremor going through his powerful frame. His eyes are hooded, those long lashes hiding his gaze. “I can’t do this anymore. Fuck.”

“Please,” I whisper, not sure what I’m doing, only sure I can’t walk away from this.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, the growl back in his voice, making my knees weak. “Fuck, you have no idea…”

“Show me,” I breathe.

“Shit.” His hands are suddenly on me, grabbing my hips. In one swift movement, he swings me around and pushes me against the counter. “You want me to fuck you? Say it.”

A gasp leaves my lips.

“Because I will. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for days.” He lifts me up on the counter, presses between my legs, his cock a steel bar between us. Feeling it makes my breath catch. “Hot damn, girl,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a groan.

And he kisses me.

It’s nothing like I imagined it would be. Nothing gentle and soft about it. His mouth crashes on mine, his beard chafes my chin, his tongue pushes between my lips, stroking my tongue, the roof of my mouth, and I’m on fire.

He tastes of blood and smoke and fire. My hands slide up his powerful shoulders to his face, tangle in his silky hair. I kiss him back, my mouth opening for him, my tongue sliding against his, and need pulses deep in my belly. It’s a strange ache, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt before.

I want him inside me.

The thought startles me, but he swallows my gasp, devouring my mouth, his hands moving down my body to grip my waist.

Never fooled around with a guy before—my frigging braces saw to that, plus the bullying by Ross and his nasty gang of friends—and I never thought my first time would be like this.

Against a kitchen counter. With a man who looks more beast than man in the twilight. Whose grip on my body is bruising, his kiss rough and unrestrained, going on and on, sucking all the air from my lungs.

Lighting up my body from the inside like a runaway spark, racing through my veins like liquid flame, waking up every part of me.

He draws back, his teeth scraping my lips, his beard tickling my chin. His warm breath washes over me, smelling faintly of Whiskey.

Without a word, he shoves his hands under my blouse, finding my breasts and squeezing them in their cotton cups, making me gasp. Pleasure shoots down my belly, pooling between my legs. I wind my arms around his neck, not sure of my balance when he tugs the cups down and thumbs my nipples.

Oh God…

More pleasure zings down my nerve endings, and heat gathers deep low. Pressure is building up, and I don’t know what to do with it.

I need him to take care of it.

Of me.

“Damn,” he growls, pressing his mouth to the juncture between my neck and shoulder, nipping and mouthing my skin, until I push into his hands, into his biting kisses that move up my neck. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

His scent hits me, that spicy musk mingled with car oil and leather, sharp and masculine.

“I want you,” I whisper.

With a curse, he pulls back and before I know it, he whips my blouse over my head and runs his hot gaze over my exposed breasts.

My cheeks are burning. My eyes sting, and I don’t know if it’s from humiliation or that desperate need to feel him closer—against me, over me, inside me.

Everywhere.

His eyes are so dark they seem to swallow the light. He doesn’t move, taking his time to look me over, take his fill, and my nipples harden more under his scrutiny, aching for his touch. I’m caught in a net of desire, paralyzed, unable to escape.

I’m a statue made of clay. I feel like I’ll shatter if he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t do something. My courage, much as it is, fueled by this slow-burning desire for him over the weeks, lit by this sudden clash of our bodies, won’t last long.

The longer he stays still, staring at me, the more my heart races and the more second thoughts start crowding my head.

Nervous and shaky, I push at his chest. “Matt…”

A flash of darkness goes through his eyes. Then he leans back and grabs the hem of his T-shirt, whips it over his head and lets it drop to the floor.

Holy shit… Seeing his perfect chest never gets old. It impacts me just like the first time—the honed muscles, the line of his broad bones under smooth skin, the dark ink wire twining around his body, a white design on the inside of his left wrist.

He moves before I make it out, gripping my chin and lifting my head until I have no choice but to look into his eyes. My breath hitches, caught in my lungs.

I dig my nails into the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I need him to touch me so badly. To kiss me, stroke me, fill me up.

His mouth descends on mine once again, crushing our mouths together, his tongue thrusting against mine, making me see stars. He’s eating me up, mauling me, his hand sliding into my hair and pulling as he sucks on my lips and tongue.

Then, releasing me, he drops his hand to my pants and hauls them down and off me, panties, socks, shoes and all, leaving me naked on the kitchen counter.

“No more games,” he rasps, running his hands over my thighs, spreading me wider, and I gasp as the cool air hits my exposed pussy.

What games? I want to ask, but can’t because his thumb parts my folds and strokes me, a long, deep slide between my legs that has me trembling and moaning his name.

He doesn’t tease. His thumb brushes over my clit once, twice, then presses into me and I choke on a cry. I’m suddenly so frigging close to coming it’s unreal. I’m gripping his arms, probably leaving gouges in his flesh, but my whole existence is centered where he’s touching me, finally touching me, breaching me.

He pushes a finger inside me and I hiss, then groan when he strokes something deep that sends a flood of pleasure through me.

“Please…” If he presses a bit deeper, a bit harder… “Oh God…”

He stops, then the pressure increases, and I’m right there, on the edge again, shaking and clawing at his arms, gasping and moaning.

I can’t recognize myself. Who is this girl who’s humping her employer’s hand—legs spread, breasts hanging out, begging for more? I’d never even been kissed a guy properly before.

And now I’m spoiled for life, kissed so thoroughly I doubt I’ll be able to feel any other kiss, want any other kiss after this one, any other man—and oh God, the way he’s touching me, I’m…

“No,” he says, withdrawing his fingers, and a sob escapes me. His gaze is again boring into mine, dark and hard and inexorable. “You’ll come on my dick.”

I jolt at the words, then again when he captures my mouth in one more hard kiss before straightening and dropping his pants. Distracted from the way my pussy is aching and pulsing, needing release, I can’t help but lick my lips at the way his cock tents his black briefs.

This… this isn’t normal, is it? This isn’t like me. All my life I’ve been a good, quiet girl, keeping my head down and not even looking at guys much. Not except for Jake Hammond at school, and even touching myself at night in bed sometimes thinking of his mouth, but that’s just to be expected. All the girls wanted him.

And who cares about Jake frigging Hammond now, when Matt Hansen is in front of me, every mouthwatering inch of him on display, with the promise of seeing, feeling his cock at any moment? It’s thrilling. Exhilarating.

So damn hot.

I lift a hand to my mouth, trailing my fingers over the tender, reddened flesh, still feeling his mouth there, his teeth, his wiry beard. I slip my thumb into my mouth, needing… needing him. Not sure what to do, how to satisfy that burning ache.

His eyes follow my movements, transfixed, gleaming in the dimness like a wolf’s. “Oh fuck…” he whispers.

And pushes his briefs down, taking his cock in his hand. Long and thick, veined and flushed, it seems to pulse in his fist, and a heavy bolt of lust slams into me, laced with a healthy bit of apprehension.

He’s going to put that inside me?

Unconsciously I scoot back on the counter, trying to get away, until my back hits the wall, bringing me up short.

His eyes narrow. Letting go of his hard cock, he grabs my legs and hauls me back to the edge of the counter. Dipping his head, he pins me with his eyes, with that frightening intensity he has tonight that has me torn between wanting to run away and climb all over him.

His scent hits me again, stronger than before, and my hands trail over his bare chest, over his ink, over his frantic heartbeat, and then drift lower, over his taut stomach, grazing his hard-on.

The sound that escapes him is so animal-like, a groan so deep it raises the fine hairs on my arms. I brush my fingertips over the wet head of his erection again, deliberately, just to hear him make that sound again, feel how my touch affects him.

He’s looking down, where my hand is hovering over his cock, his mouth slack.

Emboldened, I stroke my fingertips down his length, and its heat sears me. It feels so good, the skin soft, sliding over that hard length when I wrap my fingers around it, and he grunts, pushing into my grip.

His hands tighten on my legs as he rocks his hips, his cock swelling more in my grasp as I stare down at it, mesmerized. It’s throbbing. I can feel his heartbeat at its base.

He steps away and I let go, startled. Swiping his pants from the floor, he pulls out his wallet and from there a silver foil.

A condom.

The reality of what we’re about to do crashes on me again. My mom’s face flashes in front of my eyes, set in a frown of disapproval. That’s how she ended up pregnant so young and left home, only to be abandoned by my father when Merc was born.

If she knew what I’m doing right now she’d have a screaming fit.

And then Gigi’s voice says in my ear. “Live a little, Tati.”

My body agrees. My mind falls in line when he tears the foil with his teeth and grabs his cock in his big hand, giving it a few strokes. He’s watching me from under those long lashes, measuring me.

Wanting me.

And I want him, too. Screw tomorrow. Screw the consequences. I reach for him, sliding my hands over his arms to his corded neck.

His body is a statue, powerful and hard, still and unyielding, but as my hands tug on his hair, on his beard, touching his face, he breaks, unbends, and comes to life.

With a low groan, he rolls the condom over his hard-on, and presses between my legs, rubbing the head of his cock over my entrance—then pushing into me.

Pushing and rocking and thrusting deep.

“Oh fuck, Tay…” He chokes on a pained grunt, bending over me, his cock twitching inside me, and I’m speechless.

In shock.

I’m so full of him, nailed down, split open, and I’m not sure I can do this.

Again he doesn’t leave me time to react. His hands drop to my hips as he starts moving, thrusting into me. He moves his hands under my legs, lifting them, locking them around his hips and lifts me right off the counter, slamming into me, groaning with every thrust.

Holy crap. Tears sting my eyes. I choke on the pain of his big, hard cock inside me, splitting me apart, driving so deep I want to scream, but as his mouth fastens on one of my nipples, the pain turns to discomfort, and then to blinding pleasure.

“Oh God, ohgodohgod…” My voice fails me when he rolls his hips and the angle changes, a rush of pleasure unlike anything I’ve ever felt burning through me. “Matt!”

His harsh breathing answers me, his breath scalding on my breast, his cock sliding in and out of me as he effortlessly lifts and lowers me, fucking me so hard.

So hard, God, and I’m starting to come before I even realize it, my nipple in his mouth, his cock buried deep inside me, his name on my lips.

I cry out, the hot wave of release jerking me like a puppet on a string. I hold on to him with all I have as another wave rolls on top of the first, the pleasure burning. Annihilating me.

Dazedly I think that this might be what flying—or what dying—must feel like.

Dying—or maybe, finally living.