Layla
I wrap my hand around the back of Dalton’s neck, my nails raking over his skin. His hair is like silk–soft and thick–and his skin is warm against my touch.
He’s here; he’s real, and I’m safe.
His lips brush against mine again in a silent invitation. My heart is still hammering in my chest as I close my eyes and part my lips, letting go of the crushing weight of the fear I’d just experienced and everything I thought I’d seen while running for my life through the house.
His tongue slides over my lower lip–tasting me. I inhale a desperate breath before his tongue slides into my mouth, over my teeth, my tongue.
He makes a low, throaty sound of pure male satisfaction before pressing his hand against my throat and deepening the kiss until I’m gasping for air.
He tastes like salt
