Taken by the Beast (The Conduit Series Book 1) by Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley

something I didn’t want to admit. Something that went against everything I believed and all of who I thought I was.
    “Is that what you want, Ms. Bellamy?” His lips parted. “For me to let go?”
    The breath caught in my throat. He inched a fraction closer, closing that last bit of space between us so that his chest pressed against mine. Suddenly, and against my volition, my nipples hardened. My heart jackhammered against my ribcage, and a flush crept up my body, warming every part of me.
    Abram tipped his forehead down so that it rested against my own. “Is that what you want?”
    The temperature of the room shifted. The sensation of his hands pinning mine sent sparks through my body. He pushed against me, and the evidence of his arousal stiffened against my thigh.
    I opened my mouth, ready to push him away, to tell him that yes, I wanted him to let me go. But the words did not come. Instead, only a whimper escaped my lips.
    “Not good enough,” he said.
    He dipped his head, his lips brushing warm and rough against my neck, and my knees wobbled so abruptly that I wasn’t sure I could keep myself upright if not for his grip on me. Another damned whimper trickled from my mouth.
    “Not near good enough.” His breath was hot against the side of my neck. “See, Miss Bellamy, I’m not sure you want me to let go. I think you want me to take care of you. But if you want that—if you want me to
really
take care of you—then you have to say it.”
    His mouth traveled to my earlobe, the same earlobe Dalton had kissed not twenty four hours before, and he gave it a sharp nip.
    I moaned, arching my back and pressing hard against him. The entirety of me trembled as pleasure vibrated up my legs and into the rest of me. I moistened, as if to prepare for him, as if to answer his question without saying a word.
    “You have to say it,” he commanded. “If you want it, you have to say it.”
    I hadn’t felt like this in … well, I couldn’t remember a time I’d ever felt
this
way. The attraction—the
need
—was all-consuming. I didn’t care about anything else anymore. Just this moment. So I told him what he wanted to hear—what deep down was really true.
    “I … I do,” I murmured, heart in my throat. “I want it.”
    He let go of my hands and grabbed either side of me, thrusting me up and wrapping me in his massive, muscled arms.
    The world spun as he pressed his face against mine, ravaging my cheeks, nose, and neck with his mouth.
    Finally, mercifully, he took my lips with his own. The rush was almost too much to handle. When his tongue pushed past my lips and into my mouth, I thought I might faint. The warmth of him caressed me, exciting me and comforting me all at the same time.
    I wrapped my legs around his waist, and we slammed into a wall still slick with fresh paint. I smelled it all, the paint that now covered us both, the sweat that slid between our bodies, the scent of him that urged me to go further.
    My fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed me deeply. He throbbed against me now, and I ached for him to quench the fire he had lit.
    His hand, covered in paint, ran under my blouse, inching up from my navel. He bit my lip as he tugged off my bra, freeing my breasts and sending a needy shiver through my body. I moaned again, clutching against him and thrusting my hips into his.
    His mouth still pressed against my own, I felt the smile creep across his lips as he scoured my breasts hungrily, electricity in his fingers and desire coursing through my every nerve. He pinched my nipples between his thumb and forefinger until my moans turned to begging, then he pulled at my blouse, ripping it open.
    “Your dress,” he muttered.
    “Fuck the dress,” I whispered. “Just keep going.”
    He trailed kisses down my neck, my chest, my breasts. My body shuddered as he took them in his mouth, one and then the other. His tongue flickered across my nipples, sending shockwaves through me and beating past the very