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The moment the hotel room door shuts, Brant spins me around until my back is pressed up against it. A squeaky gasp falls out of me. His one hand is planted on the door right beside my head, while the other trails up my body, from my thigh to my hip, skimming over my breast, and settling along the expanse of my neck. He tugs at my bottom lip with his thumb, his eyes fixed on my mouth.
I thrust my pelvis forward, my body arching into his.
“June…” He whispers my name on a ragged breath, his thumb sinking between my lips. “I’ve missed your fucking mouth.”
All I can do is whimper as I grind against him, the ache between my legs pulsing and needy.
“I’ve missed the way you say my name, and the way you laugh,” he says, leaning in to pepper kisses along the side of my throat, then up my jawline, until his mouth is hovering a centimeter from mine. “I’ve missed the way your lips taste, especially when you’re wearing that gloss that tastes like cherry pie. I’ve missed the sounds you make when you come.”
He draws his thumb from my mouth, and before the desperate begging can spill out of me, he kisses me. My lips are his again, as they have been ever since we stood in that hallway at the prom and I opened a doorway to the inevitable. A prelude to meant to be.
Fate disguised in sinful wrapping paper.
But it doesn’t feel wrong anymore. His hands on my body don’t feel criminal, and his lips on mine don’t feel like a fluke.
Brant seems to melt, deflate, as he presses a soft kiss to my bottom lip, just lingering for a pause as if he’s accepting the moment—this inevitable, meant to be, fateful moment. A moment that confirms that we were never wrong. Our love story was never wrong.
We were simply waiting for the timing to be right.
He sighs against my mouth and it sounds like longing, like pure relief, then he tugs my bottom lip between his teeth with a groan. And when he dives back in for another taste, his hands grip my cheeks in a possessive, desperate clutch and our mouths both open at the same time, tongues colliding. I shiver at the contact. His tongue slides over mine as we moan together, and I suck on it, reveling in the way his hips jerk against me, his erection stabbing my lower belly.
He pulls back to grip the edge of my T-shirt and yank it up over my head, until my bra-covered breasts become the new prize for his tongue. The robin’s-egg-blue lace is tugged down in one quick motion, as if taking the two seconds to unhook the clasp would be an eternity.
Brant sucks on my nipple as my whole body arches upward, seeking his hot tongue, and my hands hold the back of his head to my chest. As he nicks me with his teeth, one of his hands drops to his belt buckle and he clumsily begins to unfasten it.
“I need you,” he murmurs against my cleavage, laving his tongue upward until he’s decorating my throat in future hickeys. “I need you now.”
“Take me,” I say, my hands shaking as I reach for the buttons on his shirt.
With his belt hanging loose around his hips, he takes over for me, hastily pulling apart each button, his eyes blazing into mine. The moment the last button is undone, I push the dress shirt off his shoulders and graze my palms over his hard chest.
He’s brawnier, more filled out. Rippled planks of muscle flex and twitch beneath my touch as my hands slide down his torso, landing at the button of his pants.
“There’s something I need to know,” he says breathlessly, flipping me around until my breasts are pressed against the hotel room door. I squeak in surprise as his mouth draws close to my ear and his strained breaths mingle with the sound of his zipper sliding down. “Tell me how many other men have been inside of you. I need to know, even if it kills me.”
Reaching around my body, Brant unhooks my jeans and shoves them off my hips, my underwear following. Two fingers slip inside me, hard and sudden, causing us both to moan. I’m so wet, the slippery sounds echo all around us, nearly wiping his question from my mind.
“How many, June?”
He picks up speed, fucking me hard with his fingers and nudging his erection between the back of my thighs. I feel like I might come, and it’s only been ten seconds. “Only you,” I manage to pant out. “No one else.”
He stills for a moment, slowing down. A long breath hits my ear, and his forehead falls to my shoulder briefly, like he’s trying to process my response. He’s savoring it.
Then he spins me back around, grabs me by the thighs, and hoists me up into his arms. I’m carried to the bed and dropped onto the mattress, but before I can situate myself, Brant is tugging my pants and underwear off my ankles and flipping me back over onto my stomach.
He climbs over me, covering me with his broad frame, his chest flush against my back. Taking me by the wrists, he extends my arms over my head, clasping them together with one hand as he uses the other to position his cock between my slick thighs.
Yes.
I need this.
I need him.
It’s been so long.
He doesn’t make me wait. Brant shoves into me from behind with a groan, and I cry out, squirming beneath him as his opposite hand glides up my body until he’s fisting my hair. He tugs my head to the side and captures my mouth over my shoulder in a sloppy, lust-laced kiss.
“Oh God…” I whimper as his hips start bucking. Our tongues tangle wildly and without direction, as if we picked up a guitar and just started playing, unskilled and unprepared yet knowing it will still make music.
