Page 65

These last few months I’ve tried not to stare too long whenever she wore low-cut tops or tight jumpers. I told myself to be a gentleman. But now, with one hand, I can confirm what I suspected: Maisie’s tits are perfect. Small, soft, and perky beneath my palm—and so maddeningly hers that I can hardly think straight.

I trace slow circles over her nipple with my thumb before gently rolling it between my fingers. Maisie gasps, a sharp little intake of breath that makes every muscle in my body tighten in response. My cock throbs against her belly as the sound loops endlessly in my brain like some kind of sinful soundtrack.

Something primal surges within me, and before I fully register what I’m doing, I scoop her up, just like yesterday. She immediately responds by wrapping her legs around me. Her thighs grip me tightly, like this is where they’re meant to be. I hook one arm under her right leg while the other cups her arse—a perfect handful.

We’re kissing again before I even have time to think about it, our mouths reuniting as though they’ve been starved for each other. Maisie presses herself close to me, and the warmth radiating from between her thighs is tantalising and maddening. It seeps through every layer between us until all reason evaporates.

But then she pulls back slightly, breaking the kiss with a soft pop. Her chest rises and falls with ragged breaths; her cheeks are flushed a delicious shade of pink; her swollen lips glisten from our kisses. God, she’s bonny like this—untamed and unguarded in a way that knocks the wind out of me.

I swallow hard. “You all right?”

I’m braced for her to say we’ve gone too far again and I need to put her down. Instead she says, “Take me to my bedroom.”

“You sure?”

She nods. “Aye.”

That single word is all the encouragement I need. She directs me to her door, and I take her through it and to her double bed. We collapse onto it, her body soft beneath mine, our mouths fusing together once more. Then Maisie starts shimmying beneath me—not pushing me away but wriggling with purpose until something small and black slides down her legs. A tiny black thong.

My brain short-circuits for several seconds as realisation dawns: beneath this maddening excuse for a summer dress, Maisie Kerr is . . . bare.

Bloody hell.

“Need to see you,” I rasp. Words are difficult as all the blood has rushed south.

I slide the fabric of her dress higher and freeze. Slick, glistening skin framed by soft golden curls. I’m so used to seeing Maisie with bold hair colours that I’d forgotten she’s a natural blonde.

The temptation to taste her is too much to resist. I place a hand on each of her thighs and lower myself between them, pressing a soft kiss just above where she’s hottest. Her thighs twitch, a delicious reaction that spurs me to let my mouth wander a little closer.

Her scent hits me: sweet and musky with an edge so raw it goes straight to my head—and my cock. And when my tongue finally glides over her slick heat? Heaven. Absolute bloody heaven.

Maisie moans sharply at the first touch, one hand flying into my hair like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this world. The sound drives me mad, and before I know it, I’m feasting on her like she’s all I’ve ever craved.

My tongue works its way through every inch of her wetness, teasing and learning all at once until I find where she needs me most. When I circle that sensitive spot—not too hard but just enough—she gasps loudly, rocking against my mouth despite herself.

“Jamie!” She yanks hard on my hair. She’s not pushing me away exactly but rather dragging my mouth back up to hers, where she claims it in a kiss that leaves us both breathless. It’s messy, all lips and tongues and unspoken hunger, the kind of kiss that sets fire to your blood.

But then she’s fumbling at my belt, her movements frantic and impatient. It doesn’t take her long to get it undone, the metallic clink of the buckle ringing out in the charged air between us. With a single determined motion, she tugs my jeans down, then my boxers too.

I go in for another kiss, eager to devour her again, but she presses a hand to my chest, holding me back just enough to make me stop. Her eyes drop down between us, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how exposed I am—leaning over Maisie Kerr with her looking at me like that.

Slowly, deliberately, she reaches out and curls her fingers around me. I can’t suppress the deep groan that rumbles through me. The heat of her palm against me is perfect—small but firm—and every nerve ending in my body lights up at her touch.

Her first stroke is slow. Teasing. Excruciating in the best possible way. She pumps me once, then twice, her grip firm yet maddeningly controlled as she draws out a rhythm so unhurried it feels like torture. My breath hitches when her thumb brushes over the tip, catching the bead of pre-cum that’s already glistening there. And then . . . she lifts her thumb to her lips.

For a second all I can do is stare as her tongue darts out to taste me, unashamed and unapologetic about what she’s doing or how much it’s undoing me. Then her hand wraps around me again, only this time her grip is even tighter, enough to make my knees threaten to buckle. I’m hanging on by a thread here.

Her eyes find mine, burning hot and unrelenting as if they’re branding themselves into my soul. “Jamie . . . I need you—need this—inside me. Right now.”

The words hit me like a thunderclap. Blood roars in my ears, drowning out anything else I might have been capable of thinking. Fuck. There isn’t a chance in hell I could deny her—not when I’m so hard it aches, and definitely not when she’s lying beneath me looking like sin incarnate in that floaty green dress bunched high around her waist.

“Er . . . protection?” I manage to rasp, though my voice barely sounds like my own.

“No need.” Her tone is a delicious combination of impatience and desire. “I’m on the pill. Now stop wasting time and put it in already.”

Her bluntness sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through me. Still gripping me, she guides me down to where she’s warmest, slickest—where she’s waiting for me. That first intimate brush of contact tightens something low in my chest, stealing my breath. I don’t rush it, although every nerve in my body screams at me to move faster.

I press forward slowly, achingly slowly, feeling every inch of the wet heat that welcomes me as I push deeper. She’s tight—a heavenly kind of tight—and I have to grit my teeth against the overwhelming urge to thrust all the way in at once. Instead I hold as steady as I can, watching every flicker of emotion that plays across her face.