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"Because they're criminals?" I asked, cringing a bit at the phrasing, no matter how true it was. "So you didn't feel like you guys had to hide or lie about who you were?"
"Exactly," he agreed. "And it gave us all an immediate sense of familiarity and roots."
"They're good at that," I told him, smiling a bit. "Making you feel like family, like you always belonged there," I added. "I haven't even known them that long, but as soon as they invited Peyton in as part of the extended family, it was almost like they expected me and Jamie to be too."
"Go on, you can say it," he said, eyes twinkling. "They've got big hearts for a bunch of kneecap-breakers."
The laugh bubbled up and burst out, making his lips curl up as well.
"Yes, that," I agreed. "Huge hearts." Suddenly uncomfortable for reasons I didn't even understand, I moved to stand. "I'm gonna go fax..."
My foot clipped the side of the desk, shooting pain through my toes, making me stumble forward.
Hands sank into my hips, quick reflexes, as my upper body pitched forward, my shoulders whacking into the solid line of his chest, my head slamming into his shoulder.
"That floor just reached up and grabbed you," he declared with a low chuckle.
"The desk," I clarified, catching myself taking a deep breath of him, forcing myself to press backward.
"That fucker," he agreed. "Need me to kiss it and make it better?"
My head jerked up, breath catching in my chest. My eyes found his, watching the light slip away, seeming to sense the way my system had tripped into overdrive at the mention of the word kiss.
It was right about then that I realized that his hands were still at my hips, fingertips digging in with an almost possessive type of pressure.
My breath shuddered out of me, my heart feeling oddly like it was buzzing instead of beating.
Kingston's fingers slid from the sides of my hips to my lower back, pulling as his legs slid open, inviting my body inside. His thick jeans scraped my thighs as I was guided inward.
My gaze held his, my heart seized in my chest, sure this wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.
But even as I thought it, his right hand left my lower back, teasing slightly over my ribcage before lifting, swiping some of my hair off my neck, placing his palm flat there instead.
Warm.
His hands were always warm.
But the touch somehow sent a shiver coursing through me. And this time, not just on the inside.
As though that had been what he had been waiting for, both hands pressed harder, pulled until my chest brushed his, until I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact.
His dark eyes, already hooded with need like my own felt, went even more heated as my own fluttered closed, waiting, expecting.
The second my lashes hit my cheeks, his head dipped. His breath was warm on my nose for the shortest of seconds before his lips pressed down on mine.
Hard, but tentative.
As if waiting for me to pull away.
Like every ounce of my being hadn't been dying for this moment since the second I laid eyes on him.
Like he had been fully unaware of the chaos that coursed through my system whenever he was close enough to breathe the same air as me.
Not bothering to stifle a needy whimper, my hands started to rise, grabbed hold of the strong caps of his shoulders, holding on as my lips pressed harder, demanded more.
It was then that the control Kingston was widely known for snapped, his fingers pulling harder until there wasn't a whisper of air between our bodies, until my breasts crushed to the hard lines of his chest, until it was nearly hard to breathe as his arm folded across my back, trapping me to him as though I had any ideas of trying to get away. His lips pressed harder, got hungrier. His teeth nipped, pulled, dug in hard enough to make an unexpected moan escape me as my arms moved to fold across the back of his neck.
A low rumble moved through his chest, vibrated into my own as my lips parted, his tongue moving inside to mate with mine.
This, my body seemed to sigh, this was what I had been needing for so long, what I had been waiting for.
Not bruising, impatient drunk kisses with a stranger, not hands too impatient to stay still, not the rush that spoke of an expectation of more.
Just slow, expert exploration.
Just lips searching, finding, just hands holding on through it as the fire kindled, started licking toward a raging flame.
No urgency which seemed to allow every little sensation to amplify, become something nearly overwhelming.
This was why I personally couldn't partake in the hookup culture, why casual sex never worked for me.
I didn't want a hurried orgasm.
