Taming Lily (The Fowler Sisters 3) - Page 83

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And God help me, I want to be wrecked. I’m desperate for him to destroy me in the way only he can, so he can put me back together again. I want to feel his body next to mine; I want to be connected with him and only him. I want Max to tease me and push me to the brink until I shatter completely apart when he finally allows me the orgasm I so desperately need.

I also want to clamp my legs shut and deprive him of the view. I want to yell at him and demand that he touch me so I can find some sort of relief.

But I do none of that. I merely wait.

And slowly, quietly, burn for him.

Chapter twenty-nine

Max

MY TIGHTLY REINED-IN control is hanging by a thread. Having Lily on such blatant display, sprawled on my bed, her long, golden-brown hair spread across the pillow, her breasts encased in black lace, legs obscenely wide open and showing me every inch of her glistening pink pussy, all that runs through my head is one single word. A word I never thought about in regards to a woman until this one.

Mine.

Mine, mine, mine.

Jesus, I feel greedy with wanting her. She wants to come, I can tell. I see her clit protruding from the folds between her legs, can see the creamy white drops clinging to her skin, coating the inside of her thighs. She’s so turned on I can smell her, the scent of her arousal thick in the room, making my nostrils flare. My cock threatens to burst out of my fucking jeans at any moment and I take a deep, hissing breath, closing my eyes for the briefest moment as I tell myself I can do this. I can get through this for a few more minutes.

I want to break her. Completely break her and then put her back together again so she knows that she’s mine and no one else’s. My dormant possessive nature has come roaring to life, and my overpowering need to take her and make her understand her place in life—by my side, beneath me, over me—is making it hard for me to focus.

Her soft whimper gets me and without thought I unbuckle my belt, undo my jeans, and take them off, pulling my boxer briefs with them, kicking off my shoes. Until I’m naked and my cock is so hard it fucking hurts. I’m aching for her; my entire body is strung tight with my need for Lily.

I go to her, not missing how she watches me with those big, luminous eyes, and she doesn’t say a word as I crawl onto the bed until I’m hovering above her, my hands braced on either side of her head and sinking into the pillow, my hips nestled between her spread legs, her lace-covered breasts in front of my face and tempting me.

Dipping my head, I press my mouth to the valley between her breasts, breathing deep her fragrance, kissing her there. Licking her. She arches against me on a blissful sigh, her hands going to my hair, holding my head in place, and I let her. I may prefer control but I let her guide me, show me what feels good.

That’s all I want to do, make her feel good, make her feel safe. I’m here for her always. Her giving up control to me completely is one way she can know that no matter what, I will take care of her. And I will. Better than anyone else has ever in her life. This girl was made for me. I want her to know it.

I rain kisses across the tops of her breasts, licking at her nipples, sucking one deep into my mouth, lace and all. She lurches and tries to pull away when I nibble at her flesh but I hold her still, gripping her with my hands, wanting her to take my gentle assault. She moans my name, tugs my hair tighter, and I bite her harder, needing to remind her who’s really in charge here. She cries out, lifting her hips, my cock brushing against her belly, and I can tell she’s close to losing it.

“Fuck me, fuck me,” she chants and I lift my head, studying her. She’s so beautiful, her cheeks tinged pink, her eyes closed, her lips falling open. “Please, Max, please.”

Realization hits and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. “Lily.” Her eyes snap open when I say her name and she studies me, her gaze cloudy, her delicate brows lowered. “Do you have condoms? In your purse or …”

She snaps her eyes shut on a grimace. “No,” she wails, sounding positively in pain. “Oh my God, no. Tell me you have one in your wallet.”

“I don’t.” I don’t usually pack condoms in my wallet. Safety first and all that shit, but hell, carrying them around makes me feel like I’m on the make, like I expect to get laid. “But I’m clean.”

Those eyes open again, full of confusion and hope. “So am I,” she admits softly. “I’m on the pill, too, so …”

“I’ve never been with another woman without a condom,” I tell her, because it’s the damn truth.

“I’ve never been with another man without a condom, either.” A shuddery breath escapes her and I swear I see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I’ve been with a lot of men, Max. Not as many as the media likes to portray, but I’m no saint.”

I hate thinking of her being with any man, but I’m not an idiot. I can’t expect her to live the life of a saint while waiting for me, for Christ’s sake. That’s completely unbelievable and wrong of me to even consider. Those men aren’t important, though. The only one who matters in her life now is … me. “I’m not a saint either, baby. You know this.”

“I just don’t want you to … judge me. Or think I’m a slut.” She presses her lips together and squeezes her eyes shut, but I see the tears clinging to her thick lashes.

“You’re a woman.” I press my mouth to her forehead in a tender kiss, wishing I could reassure her, make her feel better. Her tears tug at my heart, pierce my made-of-steel soul, and I kiss her temple, her cheek, kiss away the few tears that escaped. “You’ve done things, lived your life. I can’t expect anything less.”


Tags: Monica Murphy The Fowler Sisters Romance
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