Page 68 of Already Callin’ You Mine

Silence fills the living room, the lack of sound so obvious I swear you could hear a cricket fart. Or my heart slam against my chest as I try and think of a response. One that is sexy and cute and actually makes Jace want to play show and tell. Or pick up where we left off the other night before my mother called.

He raises a brow playfully, waiting on me to answer. There’s a tug in my chest, urging me to respond in kind.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to showing…” I mutter.

Shit, did I really say that out loud?

Jace’s shit-eating grin says it all. I did say that out loud. And loud enough for him to hear.

“Say that again.”

“Make me.”

“I’d rather just kiss you,” he says, shifting closer to me. Our legs touch, the heat between them distracting me for a second. “I really want to kiss you again, Presley.”

“You kissed me earlier. A couple of times.”

I regret the words as soon as they tumble out of me. It’s hard to tell if they sound coy and flirty, or completely stupid. I’m leaning toward the latter.

“Yeah, I did.” He huffs out a laugh. “But those weren’t enough. All they were was a tease. I want to kiss you—really, truly kiss you—until neither of us can breathe. I want to feel your curves in my hands, learn the landscape of your body so I can make you scream my name. I want…I want you.”

Holy shit…

I gasp. His admission feels like tossing a lit match into a gas tank, my insides exploding with white-hot need. The need for him to do all of those things. To me.

“I want that too.”

“Showing it is then.”

Before I can blink, Jace’s hands are on my hips, hauling me into his lap. I feel as light as air as he moves me around, that tug in my chest turning into a tether as his mouth meets mine. The spicy and undeniably irresistible taste of him takes over, flooding my senses. Same as it did the other night in the truck.

I thought maybe I’d imagined that. There was no way his kiss was really that good. It was simply that it had been so long since anyone had kissed me mixed with the excitement of my high school crush that made me keep playing it over and over again in my mind. But now…now I stand corrected.

Jace Hayes’s kiss is that good.

Better even. Richer, deeper, and so all-encompassing that I feel like I could get lost in it forever. To the point that when he flexes his hands on my side chub, jutting his hip up into me as he deepens the kiss, I’m too distracted to be self-conscious. To think about how he’s currently holding on to those lingering extra pounds of baby weight.

I kiss him back, trying to match his fervor, wanting him to know how much I want this. Want him. I might not be able to put it into all those swoony words like he did, but I crave him the same way.

Rolling my hips, I drag my core against his crotch, searching out something more. The move earns me a groan and a nip at my bottom lip, the wetness settling between my legs instantly noticeable.

“Fuck, Pres…” Jace says, his voice gruff, as he pulls back slightly. He catches my bottom lip between his teeth, holding it there for a moment. I whimper, the soft sting of his teeth reactivating the butterflies. “Your lips are like cotton candy, so soft and sweet.”

I blush, his sweet nothing sounding like it’s straight out of a romance novel. Apparently he did learn a few things.

“But I need to know if the rest of you tastes just as sweet.”

A shudder ripples down my spine, taking control for a second. One that is long enough for Jace to find the hem of my tee and pull it over my head. My breath heaves, pushing out my chest, sending my boobs straight for his face.

“Ohhhhhhh…” he groans, licking his lips, his own shudder racking his body. I say a quick thank you to the universe that Otis is a sound sleeper. “The fantasies I’ve had about this…”

Fantasies. Plural. As in more than one. About me. Holy shit.

I want to tell him that he’s not alone in that—I’ve also imagined moments just like this many times. I was younger, cuter—skinnier—in all those daydreams, but his reaction was always the same. The very reaction he’s having now.

I can’t find the words though. My brain is too busy focusing on all the things he’s making me feel—the strength of his hands as they move across my bare skin—to be able to actually form a thought. Any thought. Much less a coherent one.

Deftly, his hand moves to the button on my pants, flicking it open as easily as he did the other night. His lips find mine again, taking charge as he undoes my zipper and starts working the denim over my hips. Feeling like a newborn giraffe—all limbs and no grace—I fumble, trying to help.