At my whispered plea, he simply smiled darkly and pulled me roughly to him.
“Who said anything about dying, sweetling?” he murmured, crushing me against the granite of his chest.
“Humans,” he chuckled with amusement even as I stiffened against him. “Such alarmists.”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond as his head dipped down and suddenly his lips were moving across mine.
He smelled of masculinity and raw power; sex and leather. The heady combination was enough to dampen my fear and sharpen my sudden arousal.
He pressed me against the wall and I gasped at the shock of his tongue searching for mine.
I clung to him as he ground his hardened length against me through the rough denim of my jeans.
I wiggled against the delicious pressure, quickly losing all sense of why this was a bad idea, and simply gave in to the intoxicating feel of being ravaged.
Yes, ravaged was a good word for what he was doing to me. There was nothing soft or sweet about the way his hands were roaming my body as if memorizing every curve, every valley.