The backup brain told him, “I’m still wearing my buprenorphine patch. Which makes it more difficult for me to do, um, that.”

“Want to try?”

She exhaled sharply. “Yes, please.”

Chloe could not be held responsible for the actions of the backup brain.

He opened his eyes and she saw the naked lust there, as if someone had switched on floodlights in the dark. That sharp green gaze settled on her like a ton of bricks. A ton of sexy bricks. Apparently, bricks could be sexy when they were shooting from Red Morgan’s eyes like lasers. She may or may not be delirious with lust. The backup brain was still in control. Never mind.

He cupped her face in his hands like she was something delicate and kissed her like he’d missed her for a lifetime. His callused thumbs swept over her cheeks while their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, his erection rigid against her belly. His lips claimed hers hungrily, every slick, hot glide of his tongue tugging at something delicious between her thighs. She moaned, and he pulled back as if that was what he’d been waiting for. The size of his jet-black pupils made his pale eyes seem strange, otherworldly.

“Bedroom,” he said.

She ended up sitting primly on the edge of her bed with a tightly leashed storm of a man kneeling between her thighs. He wrapped his big hands around her bare ankles and muttered, “You always wear those fucking shoes … and these skirts. You drive me out of my mind.” He let go, flicked one of the buttons on her jumper, then frowned. Fiddled with it for a moment. “Chloe … are these buttons fake?”

“Of course they are,” she said. “Actual buttons would be an inefficient use of limited dexterity.”

He laughed like she was a headline act at the Apollo.

Laughing wasn’t exactly what she wanted from him right now, but it was so adorable she let it slide. He rested his head in her lap as he chuckled, and she slid her fingers through the golden fire of his hair until he calmed down. When he looked up at her again, his smile was even brighter than his eyes. “You and your fucking cardigans. Your fake fucking cardigans.”

“Do you like cardigans?” she asked pertly.

The last of his amusement faded away, replaced by something raw and animal. “I like yours.”

She’d never been happier about her own strange obsession with buttons she couldn’t use. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled the jumper off over her head. “See? Efficient.”

He didn’t answer. Apparently, he was too busy staring at her chest. His brow furrowed as if in pain and his eyes fluttered shut for a second before he forced them open again, like he didn’t want to miss anything. And then, good Lord, he bit his lip. As if he wanted to bite her. As if she made him hungry.

Well, the feeling was mutual.

She slid her bra straps off her shoulders, but he finally found his voice. “Woman. Don’t take that thing off unless you want me to die here.”

She rolled her eyes. “So dramatic.”

“You don’t know how much I want you,” he whispered, his gaze devouring her bare skin. “I can’t fucking tell you. I don’t know how.”

Maybe that was true, but right now, she thought she heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes—and felt it, when he ran his hand from her skirt-covered hip, to her waist, to her ribs. He toyed with the lace at the edge of her bra, then leaned forward and kissed her belly. She sucked in a gasp at the rasp of his stubble, the heat of his tongue. Languid need turned the blood in her veins to wine.

She tipped her head back and murmured, “I don’t suppose you’d take your shirt off for me, would you?”

“I think that can be arranged.” He dragged his shirt over his head. The ache between her thighs only worsened at the sight of him. He was so divine. This close, she finally realized that the tattoos covering his shoulders, his chest, his right side, were the old-fashioned, classic kind that usually came in color, but his were black and gray. An eagle, a stag, a crying woman with roses in her hair—her gaze traced over every intricately shaded piece.

He pushed her skirt up her thighs and said, his voice rough, “I like the way you look at me.”

“I—”

His phone beeped, not a call but an alarm or reminder. He took it out of his back pocket, pressed a button, then threw it—actually threw it—out of the open bedroom door.

She blinked. She’d been rather thoughtless this morning. “Oh, Red. You have work—”

“I’m busy. Be quiet.”

“I don’t think you want me to be quiet.” She said it without thinking and was rewarded with a wicked smile.

“No. I don’t.” He rose up on his knees and kissed her again, licking into her mouth, hungry and filthy in a way that got her really wet, really fast. He hiked up her skirt, but instead of touching her desperate pussy he splayed his hands over her ribs again. Slid higher. Reached into her bra and cupped the weight of her breasts, squeezing, kneading, shamelessly enjoying. She shuddered against him, moaning into his mouth. He bit her lower lip, then sucked away the sting. Each slow pull sparked electric pleasure in her clit. If he didn’t get a move on, she was going to start touching herself.

“Here’s something I haven’t told you,” he murmured against her lips. “I love your tits.” His thumbs swept over her nipples, circled her sensitive areolas, and when she whimpered, he kissed her again, fast and hard, as if he wanted to take her pleasure into his body. Then he continued. “I love your tits, but not as much as I love your legs. Don’t ask me why. I’ve been fantasizing about your thighs.” His hands skimmed back down her body, over her hips and belly, until he squeezed the aforementioned thighs. “All soft and thick and lush.” He groaned and pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone.

She sucked in a breath when his mouth reached her cleavage and kept going. He’d told her to keep the bra on, but now he muttered, “Fuck it,” and pulled down a cup until she spilled out. Then the tip of his tongue, impossibly light and achingly delicate, nudged her nipple. At the contact, a moan shot from her lips. Her body arched without permission, her hips rocking forward. He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and she lost the very last of her control. It was as if she’d been on the edge of consciousness, clinging to lucidity by her fingertips, but now she was tumbling into a dream world. She was lust.

“Red,” she gasped, her fingers sinking into his hair. “Oh, my God, Red. More.” She grabbed one of his hands and shoved it between her thighs, rocking her swollen clit into his palm. He released her nipple with one last, sweet lick and her sensitive skin tingled from the rasp of his stubble. She wondered how that same sensation would translate against her inner thighs.

God, she wanted that.

“You want to know what I like best?” he asked conversationally, as if this was a perfectly ordinary interaction. As if she wasn’t frantically grinding against his hand.

“What?” she gasped, barely caring, barely hearing.

“This,” he murmured. “You. My desperate little angel. Losing it for me.” He took his hand away and she whimpered. The sound turned into a moan when he finally pulled down her underwear. “Oh,” he said. “And this.” Without warning, his thick fingers slid through her folds. Her gasp was ragged, torn from somewhere deep inside her. The way he parted her was so intimate, it should’ve been obscene. He spread her open and said, “Your soft, wet cunt. Oh, Chloe.” His thumb circled her clit just right, so right she thought she’d fall to pieces, disappear in a shower of sparks, a fleeting surge of dangerous power. “You’re all swollen and slippery and I …” He broke off, shut his eyes, his expression agonized, and bit his fist. “No,” he muttered. “Not today.”