The way our bodies clicked into place.
His tongue traced my tattoos. Up my ribs. Across my collarbone. He scraped his stubble against my neck, soft and scratchy, before finding the one spot behind my ear that turned me into liquid.
“Fuck,” I gasped, rolling harder against him.
He bit down—soft but sure. Testing. Like I was a delicacy that he couldn’t believe he got to taste.
I grabbed a fistful of his hair and kissed him again. Desperate. Breathless. Fumbling for the button of his jeans.
He reached down to help, then paused, tugging his jeans partway off. I rose on unsteady legs, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
He looked like a goddamn painting. Messy, breathless, beautiful art. His curls were a halo of chaos. His face, lit faintly by the marina lights, looked sculpted. Unreal.
“Ready for that kiss?” I asked, trying to hold on to some sliver of cool-girl confidence. But my voice cracked. My hands shaking.
John huffed a breathy laugh. “I never stood a chance, did I?”
I grinned. But I didn’t answer.
Instead, I dropped to my knees between his. Slowly. Deliberately.
His breath hitched as I let my fingers graze his thighs—nails dragging just enough to make him twitch. Just as I did, he seemed to enjoy the slightest edge of pain.
I slid a finger beneath the waistband of his boxers. A strangled sound falling from his lips.
“Not good? Should I stop?” I asked.
“Nora,” he warned.
God, I loved the way he said my name.
I freed him from his restraints, slow and deliberate.
My mouth began to water. I lowered my head, licking a single line up his length—from base to tip. Salt bloomed on my tongue. John went taut, his whole body strung like a bow. Eyes fluttered shut. I pressed one soft kiss at the top, then sat back on my heels.
“There. Out of my system.”
His eyes snapped open. Dark. Blazing.
His fingers dug into the cushions beside him, knuckles white even in the dim light.
“Shall I go now?” I tilted my head, voice level. Like this wasn’t tearing me apart. Like I wasn’t seconds away from crawling back into his lap and begging him to fuck me.
But I didn’t have to wait long.
In one motion, John surged forward—gripping my waist, lifting me onto the coffee table behind us. Anything in the way hit the floor: mugs, books, a dish that shattered somewhere in the background. My jeans joined the chaos, and his mouth was on my skin before I could even blink.
He kissed his way up my legs, across my stomach, tracing each line of ink, every pucker of scar tissue.
Hot fingers found the curve of my breast, then tugged my bra aside. The night air brushed over my skin, replaced instantly by the hot press of his tongue—then teeth. I arched too fast, the back of my head smacking the table, and I laughed. Breathless. Dizzy.
John chuckled too, and it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.
Then his hand slipped beneath the edge of my underwear, dragging it aside. A single finger slid over my soaked center—then dipping into me. My arousal was impossible to hide. I gasped, hips bucking. We groaned at the same time, his voice low and reverent.
“Fucking finally,” he murmured. “You feel incredible.”
He watched his hand as it rhythmically stroked in and out of me. Deeper with each thrust. The cool metal of his watch grazing my inner thigh with each movement.
