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His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What?”
“Nothing. Ugh.” I try to jerk free, but it’s no use. I should have been doing Insanity Yoga for months leading up this standoff; maybe then I’d have enough strength to break free. “Just let me go so I can salvage what’s left of my dignity.”
Who am I kidding? There is none left. This gymnasium now contains my last remaining ounces. I might as well march down to the local salon and tell them to give me ‘the Lori’ because there is no hope for me.
“I feel bad,” he says, bending closer.
You should, I want to say. You made me like you. Why did you have to make me like you?
Instead, I look away and say in a monotone voice, “You’re hurting me.”
I think that will be the end of it. No guy wants to hurt a woman; it’s engrained in their twenty-first century brains to respect women. That said, Adam doesn’t budge. Worse, he argues. He must have been raised by wolves—it’s why he wanted to become a vet.
“No, I’m not hurting you. I’m barely holding you.”
“I have weak wrists.”
He laughs.
LAUGHS.
I jerk my head back and glare at him. “You’re holding me against my will. I think this is called assault.”
His gaze drops to my lips. “Assault?”
It’s like I’ve just given him a brilliant idea. He inches closer, and his body wash tortures me a little bit more.
“Why are you looking at me like that? You aren’t ready to date, remember?”
He nods. “I know.”
He’s still studying my lips, and there’s fire lighting up his green gaze, fire and…lust.
“Adam?” I say on a shaky breath.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he announces.
“Don’t!” I snap. “Adam Foxe, do NOT under any circumstance—”
He kills the rest of my sentence with his lips.
He kisses me, and for a second or two, I refuse to cooperate. He can move those lips all he wants. He can grip my wrists tighter and hold me hostage, but I will not play along, not even when he takes my bottom lip between his teeth and bites down ever so gently. Well, maybe then…but I only moan and kiss him back because it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Anyone would do the same, really.
The second I give him an inch, he takes a mile. He runs his tongue across the seam of my mouth, demanding entry, and I open up for him because I’m helpless. I’ve never been kissed like this before.
One of his hands releases my wrist so he can move down and grip my waist between his fingers. He draws me right up against him and I sink my hand through his hair, finally weaving my fingers into the silky strands I’ve been eyeing for the last few weeks. They’re short and soft, easy to tug. He tilts his head, taking the kiss deeper. There are groans and thrusts, and what’s worse is that they aren’t just coming from him.
Soon there’s not a single millimeter between our bodies. His leg is still between my thighs and we’re rolling our hips, trying to grind our bones down to dust. I feel feverish, hot. I think my knees would give out if he weren’t holding me up. This has got to stop, but I trail my fingers down his neck and hang on for dear life.
“Madeleine,” he groans against my lips.
I think I have a mini orgasm just from the way he says my name, like he’s coming apart at the seams.
Take me. Take me here and be done with it.
His hand snakes up from my waist and he drags his palm up my body, over my stomach and then over my breast, slowly…painfully. I shiver and he does it again, this time a little slower than before. Goose bumps bloom along the trail he makes and I’m thankful my clothes keep his hand from my skin. I feel raw and sensitive just from this. If he were touching me skin to skin, I think I’d do something embarrassing like break out in a sob.
His lips leave my mouth and descend down to my jawline, to my neck. My head falls back against the door—the same one I was attempting to flee through just moments ago—and I squeeze my eyes closed, savoring every sensation rippling through me.
“Yes.” I sigh when his mouth descends even farther and he kisses my breast through my clothes.
We are this close to going past the point of no return against the hard metal door when a shrill whistle blasts through the gymnasium. We leap apart. I pry my eyes open and spot a middle-aged coach standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the gym. He has a volleyball in one hand and his whistle in the other—the whistle he is still blasting at full volume.
“Jesus,” Adam mutters under his breath.
