Hellion by Shannon McKenna

Author:Shannon McKenna [McKenna, Shannon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-9977941-9-9
Publisher: Shannon McKenna

12

Eric focused on Demi’s stunning ass as she went up the stairs in front of him. The sway of her hips and that sexy rounded shape was fucking hypnotizing. Her skimpy dress was almost sheer, and was backless, scooping down almost to the cleft of her ass cheeks.

A beautiful expanse of smooth, perfect tanned skin.

And he was about to touch it. Every inch of her, he would touch and kiss and lick.

She left a trail of her own sweet scent wafting behind her. He tried to breathe every last molecule, hating to waste it. The fuzzy ringlets of her freshly-washed, scented hair bounced and swung over the dips and curves of her tanned back.

There was a little triangle of moles on her left shoulder-blade. Her skin was so fine textured. Amazingly smooth. Just that bikini strap band right across her back, of creamy paleness. Her shoulder-blades were delicate. Her spine elegantly curved.

His hands burned to touch and handle every flare and dip and swell and shadow. Delve inside all the tender inside places. He wanted to know it all. Claim it all.

Cool it. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Breathe and wait.

He focused on Demi, since the dollhouse-like perfection of their home bothered him. All the expensive antique furniture, ceramics and art. Puffy brocade chairs and couches. Persian rugs, hardwood floors, molded tin ceilings, fancy woodwork, stained glass insets. It was like being in a fucking jewel box.

It was safer just to look at her. He made an exception for the photos on the stairway. They were mostly of Demi at various times in her life, and she’d been beautiful since babyhood. No surprise there. Those amazing eyes.

Once upstairs, she led him down to the end of the upstairs corridor and into a large bedroom, which was pretty much like what he’d expected. Old-fashioned, super-girly. A wooden four-poster with a frilly lace canopy and coverlet. A heap of piled up decorative pillows. An old-time doll with a frilly bonnet over her brown curls sat right in the middle propped against a pillow. She stared at him balefully with round, glassy blue eyes.

Demi made a sound of annoyance and laid down the salt and limes on her dresser before snatching up the doll and stowing her on a shelf.

“My mom keeps putting her back on the bed,” she said. “Plus all these damn pillows. A freaking mountain of them, every time my back is turned. I’m always knocking them off and tripping over them.”

“It’s fine.” He was amused at her embarrassment. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me,” she said heatedly. “I feel like I’m stuck in a nineteenth century novel. And there’s the privacy thing. But whatever. Her house, her rules. It’s only a few more weeks.”

Eric set the tequila down on a white-painted vanity that was crowded with make-up and perfume bottles. “I’ll drink to that. Give me your hand.”

He poured out their shots, stopping to suck tenderly on her fingertips until she was gasping for breath. He finally anointed their hands with salt and held up her shot glass.

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