Page 145 of A Million To Fall

And if all I get is a single stolen moment with her, so be it. I’d rather have scraps of her than nothing at all.

My hands and mouth trace every inch of her, alternating between her breasts, licking and kissing and nipping, watching her squirm beneath me. I trail down her stomach, to her belly button, to the tender skin just above the waistband of her jeans.

Her fingers slide into my hair, and her body—fuck, her body—responds to every touch like it’s starved for kindness, like she’s been waiting for me to show her she’s worthy of this.

And show her I will.

Even if it kills me.

Her hips move restlessly, already begging for more, and I haven’t even touched her there yet.

She pulls at my shirt and I yank it off me, tossing it to the floor beside hers. I need to feel her bare skin against mine. I press my chest to hers and kiss her deeply, groaning when her soft breasts flatten against me. Her hands grip my shoulder blades, pulling me closer.

Then she wraps her legs around me. Grinds against me, against my cock straining in my jeans. And fuck, I’m aching, fucking throbbing for her.

My whole world narrows down to this moment.

This bed.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe.

There’s only Skye.

I sit up, needing more of her. She pouts, lips parted, eyes dazed, and that look she gives me—all heat and need and want—makes something in me snap.

I reach for the button of her jeans, but there’s no slow, teasing bullshit now. Not when her hips lift so eagerly and her breath catches just from the brush of my knuckles.

She wants more.

So I give it to her.

I make quick work of her jeans, tugging them down her legs and off, then strip her panties the same way.

God, I could cry with how perfect she is.

Every part of her.

We’re barely breathing, eyes locked on each other. Her lips are parted, pink and swollen.

There’s nothing rational left in me. Only this pulsing, desperate hunger to feel her, to please her, to watch her fall apart again and again under my hands and mouth and body.

I kneel between her legs, tug her thighs apart, and pause long enough to check her face, her body, the way her hips cant up toward me like a silent plea.

That’s all the answer I need.

I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh first. Teasing, yeah, but also to give her a moment to stop me if she doesn’t want this.

She glides a hand through my hair instead, fingers threading through the strands.

So I lower my mouth, then sweep the flat of my tongue over her sensitive clit.

Just once.

It’s just a taste, but Skye gasps, lifting her hips, seeking more.

The groan that leaves my chest is involuntary. She tastes like warm skin and sunshine, smells like everything good in this fucked-up world.

I do it again—one languid stroke of my tongue, and, god, she’s so responsive. So fucking wet and ready for me.