His eyes dip to the mouth that’s always ready with a comeback. “Wilder,” he says again, but this time, it’s a surrender.
12
In an instant his lipsare on hers, and Nick’s not sure who closed the distance first, only that he’s so fucking glad that space no longer exists. Her body snaps to his, his hands on the sides of her face to draw her close. Closer.
He shouldn’t want her like this. Can’t want her like this, and yet each slide of her mouth convinces him that maybe he can.
Then her back hits the door, and all rational thought leaves his mind.
Kissing Ramona is heady and inelegant. She grabs fistfuls of his shirt, lets him press her harder against the door. Opens her mouth against his. He could get addicted to the rush of her breathing, the low moan in her throat when he sinks his teeth into her lower lip.
He’s not sure he’s ever had a first kiss quite like it.
He even lets himself do what he’s been dying to since that first day—bury his hands in her hair.Fuck, it’s phenomenal. Thick and soft, and there’s just so much of it.
“You like my hair, professor?” she asks, and he manages a groan that’s only half-human.
It’s deeply wrong. Thoroughly inappropriate. The most out-of-character thing he’s ever done.
And he can’t stop.
Ramona takes control, and maybe that’s what this is going to be—a dance of power between them. She walks them back, back, until they’re right up against his desk, and he has to suppress a smile when he realizes what she’s doing.
In one swift motion, he whirls them around, her ass at the edge of the desk, keeping his mouth fused to hers while he shoves things out of the way. Papers, office supplies—why the hell does he need a three-hole punch; when’s the last time he owned a binder?—all of it gets pushed to one side. Some of it drops to the floor.
Nick has never considered himself particularly smooth, especially not over the past year. But when he lifts her onto the desk and she inches herself backward, creating the perfect space for him between her legs, he wonders if he’s only been saving it up for this moment. Waiting for her.
He’s barely had enough time to fantasize about this since she mentioned it last night, and now he fears all his fantasies have been wasted. Because the way she looks up there, swollen mouth and lush mane of hair, the rapid rise and fall of her chest…he swears under his breath.
“Just like you imagined?” she pants. Widening her legs. Drawing him close. A notebook flutters to the ground.
“Better. So much better.” His glasses are still on, he realizes as he kisses along her jaw while her hands explore his lower back, beneath his shirt. He almost doesn’t want to pause to take themoff, just in case it gives either of them time to come to their senses. And he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. “You knew exactly what you were doing,” he says against her throat, “showing up in that skirt.”
Her smile is lethal. “Did it work?”
This girl may very well be the death of him.
Doesn’t sound like a terrible way to die.
What the hell is happening?a voice presses, but he’s too far gone for logic. She said it herself—they barely know each other. And yet every single one of his senses feels like it’s been asleep for years, and Ramona is the most alluring alarm clock.
He trails his hand up her leg, beneath the hem of her skirt. Smooth, soft skin. The curve of her knee. She wraps her legs around him, her heels digging into his back a little too hard, but he finds he doesn’t mind the pain.
Ramona Wilder is someone who gets what she wants.
And right now, inexplicably, what she wants ishim.
So he wants her right back, rucking up her skirt, rocking his hips to hers, the hard ridge of his jeans finding the silk of her panties. And…oh. That’s—that’s what euphoria must feel like. He barely recognizes the rough, choked sounds falling from his mouth, wonders if she feels the same about the stream of obscenities she lets out when he hits what must be exactly the right spot. So he does it again.
He bends to kiss her neck. God, she tastes sweet everywhere. “Can I—?” he asks, mouth on her collarbone, fingertips poised on the top button of her shirt.
“Yes.Please.”
That’s all the permission he needs, going for her buttons with frantic, clumsy fingers. Once he gets her shirt open, he has topause for a second, forehead tipped to hers. Becausefuck, she has beautiful breasts, full and round and spilling out of the cups of her demi bra, brown nipples pushing against the sheer pink fabric.
If he is in fact going to die today, he wants to savor every moment.
The first place he kisses is the pattern of freckles above her right breast. That’s about all the restraint he has left. Then he presses his mouth to one nipple, his thumb working the other through the fabric of her bra. She sighs as he tugs down the lace to give himself better access, and then might actuallywhimperas he sucks her nipple between his teeth. She’s so goddamn vocal, it’s surreal—as though every small thing feels incredible.
