When He’s Dirty by Lisa Renee Jones

“This,” he says, and suddenly, his hands are on my waist, and he’s walked me back into the bathroom.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s kicked the door shut, and his fingers are diving into my hair. “Kissing you, because I can’t fucking help myself. And because you might not ever let me do it again. That is unless you object?”

That’s the part that really gets me. The “unless I object,” the way he manages to be all alpha and demanding and still ask. Well, and the part where he can’t fucking help himself.

I press to my toes and the minute my mouth meets his, his crashes over mine, his tongue doing a wicked lick that I feel in every part of me. And I don’t know what I taste like to him, but he is temptation with a hint of tequila, demand, and desire. His hands slide up my back, fingers splayed between my shoulder blades, his hard body pressed to mine, seducing me in every possible way.

I moan with the feel of him and his lips part from mine, lingering there a moment before he says, “Obviously, someone needs to protect you from me,” he says. “Like me.” And then to my shock, he releases me and leaves. The bathroom door is open and closed before I know what’s happened. And once again, I have no idea if or when I will ever see him again.

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