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I drink in the view of her pretty face. The spray of freckles across the bridge of her straight nose, her rosy cheeks, her sky-blue eyes. She’s fresh-faced, a California sunshine girl, with blonde hair full of golden streaks, piled high on her head in one of those magnificently messy buns that make no sense to most men.
Loose tendrils frame her face, sticking to her jawline and her cheek. I lift my right hand. Brush a wet curl away from her skin, tucking it over her ear. She shivers slightly.
My chest swells. She gives a tentative smile but a nervous one too.
I get that. After what she’s shared—something intensely personal—nerves are valid. I do my best to quell them with touch.
“What if we start with nice and slow? You tell me if you like it like that.”
Her breath seems to coast across her lips, chased by a hint of laughter, and excitement too. “Try me.”
I run my thumb along her jawline down to her chin. Then up and over her lower lip. Her breath hitches. Her eyes flash with expectation. And my bones vibrate with a longing so deep, it’s like I can barely remember a time when I didn’t want to kiss Briar. The desire to touch her grips me everywhere, but so does a burst of nerves.
And since I’m the guy who talked about communicating, I do a little of my own with a “Hey.”
“What is it?” She sounds wary.
I lick my lips. “I’m nervous too,” I admit.
Her smile is full of relief. “Yeah? Why?”
“Because all that stuff I said about chemistry? A two-way street?”
“Yes?”
It’s like she’s on the edge of her seat, waiting for my answer. So I give her a full dose of patent honesty. It’s a bare confession: “I really fucking hope I’m not the only one who wants this so badly.”
Her arms rope around my neck, her fingers twisting in my hair. “You’re not alone then.”
“Good. That’s so damn good.”
I dip my face to hers without a rush in the world, without a worry on my mind, with just this deep, powerful need to kiss the woman I’m unexpectedly sharing a hot tub and a night with.
I coast my lips over hers, tasting chlorine, white wine, and…a wish.
I can taste her vulnerability and hope too. The hope for a kiss that makes her knees weak. Her chest tingle. Her body melt.
I want to make this so damn good for her. I use my best skills. My ears. My mind. My focus. I pay attention to everything she does. To the soft murmurs when I kiss her slowly and languidly. To the faint sighs as I tug on her bottom lip. To the curl of her hands tighter and tighter around my neck as I kiss the corner of her mouth. Then, to the way she leans her head back, inviting more kisses.
I kiss and I listen.
I kiss and I learn. In a few short minutes I have a very good idea how Briar likes to be kissed.
Teasingly slow. Temptingly sensual. With subtle hints of kisses that twist and turn into deeper, thirstier drinks. To my lips covering hers, to our tongues skating together. It’s a hazy mirage of slow and deep kissing. Nips on corners, bites on lips, then out of nowhere she’s sucking on my tongue.
Hello!
That’s fucking nice and hot. My cock throbs in my shorts, eager to get in on the listening act too.
But I let Briar take the lead since the woman seems to want to. She gets a little aggressive and feisty and I’m here for it, answering her tempo of hungry kiss after hungry kiss, kissing her harder now, threading a hand through damp strands of her hair.
I promised, though, to help her figure out what she likes, so I break the kiss long enough to ask another question. “You like it a little rough now?”
She nods eagerly. “Yes. Harder.”
I groan. “That word.”
She wiggles her eyebrows, then whispers, “Harder.” It’s like she’s testing out how it feels to make a request. To ask for it.
