His smile brushed my stomach. “Then I’ll be careful.”
He pulled them down my legs and stopped when his thumb brushed my ankle.
The little tattoo there caught the light from the window: a colorful margarita glass tucked into a seashell and curling wave, with a tiny lime wedge bright against the rim.
Nico studied it for one long second. “That suits you.”
“It was my Miami breakdown tattoo.”
“Breakdown?”
“I signed the lease, drank two margaritas, and decided I needed proof on my body that I wasn’t going back to Jersey.”
His thumb moved once beside the ink, not over it. “Looks like proof.”
“That’s dangerously close to sweet.”
“I’ll recover.”
“You’d better.”
He kissed the inside of my ankle, and the little touch ran straight up my leg.
My fingers caught in the sheet.
Nico moved higher, kissing my calf, my knee, the inside of my thigh. I parted my legs before he asked because I was done pretending I had any appeal left against desire.
He lifted his head from between my thighs.
There should’ve been a law against that too.
“You still want this?” he asked.
I pushed onto one elbow. “Nico, if you stop now because you need me to fill out a form, I’m going to become difficult.”
“You’re already difficult.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.”
His fingers hooked in my panties.
I lifted my hips again.
He slid them down, and the air touched me first. Then his mouth did.
The first stroke of his tongue over my pussy took the sarcasm clean out of my throat.
I fell back against the bed with a sound I would deny under oath.
Nico’s hands closed around my thighs, not trapping me, holding me open. He started slow, learning every place that made my breath change. Then he found my clit, and slow stopped being a virtue.
I grabbed the sheet with one hand and his hair with the other.
He groaned against me.
The vibration punched straight through my hips.
