Page 88 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

Cole’s expression shifts, that careful control slipping just enough to show the hunger beneath. He leans down slowly, giving me every opportunity to change my mind, to pull away, to be sensible.

I don’t want to be sensible.

I want to be his.

When his lips finally meet mine, every worry evaporates. The kiss starts soft, exploratory, like he’s asking a question. But when I press closer, when my hands fist in the front of his shirt, the question becomes a demand.

Cole makes a sound low in his throat and scoops his hands beneath my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, pressing myself against his hips, and I immediately feel exactly how much he wants this, too.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth.

I respond by pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until I can taste the wine on his tongue. His free hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back as he takes control, and I melt against him.

He backs me against the wall and pins me there with his hips. The pressure is exquisite. I have never wanted anything as much as I want Cole Matthews inside me again.

“Cole,” I gasp as his mouth leaves mine to trail kisses along my jaw.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

He groans, and his lips find that sensitive spot below my ear—the one I didn’t even know I had until his mouth discovered it. I arch into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he works his way down my neck, alternating between soft kisses and gentle scrapes of teeth.

My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling because fine motor control has apparently left the building. “Off. I need this off.”

“Demanding.” But he’s smiling against my throat, and he shifts his grip on me just enough to help. Buttons come undone one by one, revealing inch after glorious inch of suntanned skin and defined muscle.

Jesus Christ. He’s a fucking god.

“You still like what you see?” There’s a hint of smugness in his voice.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He laughs—actually laughs, low and husky—as he captures my mouth again. The kiss is deeper now, more demanding. His hands slide under my sweater, calloused palms skating up my rib cage, and I shiver at the contact.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs between kisses. “So fucking soft everywhere.”

His thumbs brush the underside of my bra, a question and a promise all at once. I arch into the touch, desperate for more, and he accepts the invitation, his hands sliding higher to cup me through the thin fabric.

“Oh God,” I breathe.

“Cole,” he corrects, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “But I appreciate the comparison.”

“Did you just—” I start to laugh, but it turns into a moan as his thumb finds my nipple through the lace, circling slowly. “That was so—ah—so cheesy.”

“You loved it.”

I did. God help me, I really did.

He lowers me just enough that my feet touch the ground, then his hands are at the hem of my sweater, pulling it up and over my head. The cool air hits my skin, and I should probably feel self-conscious, standing here in my bra while he drinks me in like I’m an ice-cold beer on the hottest day of summer.

“Hailey,” he says, and my name sounds like a prayer in his mouth. “You’re…”

“If you say ‘beautiful,’ I’m going to—”

“Breathtaking.”