When we reached her door, she turned to face me, her back against the frame. The porch light cast a soft glow over her features, and I couldn’t resist leaning in to slant my mouth over hers again. “God, you taste so good.”
She smiled against my lips and grabbed my arms so I couldn’t pull away. The motion sent a blistering wave of heat to my core.
Moving back a step, she gave me a level stare. “Is that all the celebrating you had in mind?”
“Hmmm. That sounds promising. What did you have in mind?”
Her smile turned wicked at the edges. She unlocked the door without breaking eye contact, her other hand sliding from my chest down to my belt buckle, and gave it asoft tug. “I was thinking the main event hasn’t even started yet.”
I let her draw me inside. And as the door closed behind us and shut out the rest of the world, I let myself believe in the impossible.
That she was mine to keep.
Chapter Seventeen
TESSA
The doorto my townhouse clicked shut behind us. The sound was a loud, solid conclusion to the day’s public performance, sealing us into a bubble of intoxicating heat. My back hit the wall, my lungs expanding with the knowledge that he was mine.
Braden cupped my face, his thumbs brushing the corners of my mouth, already slick from the kiss he’d stolen on the porch. He held my gaze, his eyes dark with unrestrained greed.
“The main event, you said?” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly promise.
“It’s about to start.”
His smile was slow, a wicked echo of my own from the doorstep. “You’re a shark, Dr. Donovan. A shark with a passion for the ocean.” He kissed the corner of my mouth. “Now I want to see that passion directed purely at me.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his head back down, slamming my mouth against his. I tastedthe smokiness lingering on his skin from the bonfire, the faint citrus of his beer, the sheer, intoxicatingBradenof him. Every strategic, professional thought I’d had all day dissolved under the pressure of his lips.
Moonlight filtered through the cheap blinds, painting pale stripes across the wooden floor. He dragged a hand down the side of my body, his fingers snagging the zipper of my dress. He didn’t ask. He just pulled. The sound of the zipper splitting the fabric down my spine was loud in the quiet room.
“Bedroom?” he asked, his voice thick, his gaze still holding mine.
“Let’s go.”
I grabbed his hand and we stumbled, walking while we kissed, down the hall and into my room. Braden’s hands moved over me like he was memorizing my topography, mapping every place he’d touched before and discovering new ones. Every touch was slow, unhurried, deliberate. I wanted to give him everything. I wanted to show him with my body what my heart was already screaming.
I pulled his shirt over his head. The sight of his bare chest—hard, warm, familiar—stole my breath. Reaching behind me, Braden slid the fabric off my shoulders. He followed the path of the dress, sliding the fabric down my hips until it pooled at my ankles. My bra followed quickly, unclasped with a confidence that made my belly clench.
He kept his gaze locked on mine as he hooked his fingers under the band of my panties. He didn’t yank them. He teased the cotton down, tracing my shape with his thumbs, letting the material drop, until I kicked them away.
I pushed him onto his back on the bed and straddled his hips. His hands immediately found my waist, and I leaned down to kiss him.
He groaned into my mouth, his hips lifting slightly beneath me. “Tessa.”
I loved the way he said my name. Like it was the only word that mattered. Like it contained everything he couldn’t quite say out loud. I kissed my way down his chest, taking my time. His muscles tensed under my lips, and I felt the rapid beat of his heart beneath my mouth. When I reached the waistband of his jeans, I glanced up at him. His eyes were dark, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
I undid the button and zipper, then pulled his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion. He kicked them off the rest of the way, his hands fisting in the sheets beside him as if trying to hold onto his control. When I wrapped my hand around him, he hissed out a breath. Then I leaned down and took him into my mouth.
The sound that tore from his chest was a raw, guttural groan. His hand found my hair, not pulling, just anchoring himself to me. I took him deep, moving with slow strokes, then sped up, adding light pressure with my tongue and teeth. The way his abs flexed with each movement, the sharp intakes of his breath, the frantic flutter of his eyelids as his head fell back against the pillow—it was all the feedback I needed. I focused entirely on the texture and heat of him, increasing the pressure and rhythm until he made small, desperate sounds he couldn’t keep inside.
When I pulled back for a moment, he was breathing hard. He sat up, pulled me into his lap, and kissed me with bruising force.
“My turn,” he murmured against my mouth.
He flipped us over and settled between my thighs. His hands roamed—tracing the curve of my hips, skating up my ribs, cupping my breasts. Then he kissed his way downmy body, taking his time, and I melted into the mattress beneath him. The anticipation was almost unbearable.
When his mouth found me, I gasped.
