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Not even sure I remember my own name.
And then he presses his mouth to my neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses, and I think I’m going to lose my mind.
Losing seems to be the game of the day.
He’s tugging on my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders, and I help him, twisting and taking it off. Anything to feel his mouth on other parts of me. Next he’s pulling off my sweater and my shirt, and the moment they’re off, his mouth is back on my hyper-sensitized skin, kissing the mounds of my breasts, moving his lips over the lacy bra, over my hardening nipples until I’m writhing underneath him, panting, needing more.
Needing him so bad.
He puts his hands on my breasts, squeezing them together, kissing them, tugging on the lace with his teeth. My body lifts off the couch when he manages to pull the lace down and put his hot mouth on the hardened tips, sucking and licking.
“Please,” I hear myself moaning. “Please.”
He looks up, a wicked glint in his gaze, then dives back down and trails his soft lips down my belly, licking at every ridge and hollow with his rough tongue—just like a cat, I have a moment to think, and then he’s drawing my jeans and panties down my legs, taking it all off—including my shoes.
Leaving me naked on his sofa.
Cool air rushes over my skin, between my legs, where I’m hot and throbbing, and I shudder. Panic sets in, and I don’t even know why. I feel…vulnerable. I’m bared and he’s still fully dressed. I told him about my past and he’s still a mystery.
I start to sit up.
“Meg.” His smoky voice sends a shiver through me. “What do you need?”
He’s kneeling between my legs, and the tent in the front of his pants is impressive. Makes me lick my lips, and restarts the almost painful throb deep in my belly.
“I need…” You. All of you, not just random bits and pieces you throw at me as if you’d throw at a stray animal. I need your trust and your heart.
But I can’t say that. I can’t even need that from someone I know so little.
“Just tell me,” he whispers, kneeling so still, his arousal and his labored breathing the only signs of how affected he is. “Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
A corner of his mouth lifts, breaking the mask. “It’s your birthday.”
Right. It is my birthday, and what I want right now… “Take off your shirt. And your pants.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh that shakes his whole body, then shrugs off his jacket, grabs the hem of his sweater and T-shirt and pulls both off.
My mouth goes so dry I can’t swallow. My heart stops.
Holy Mary and Baby Jesus. This boy’s chest should be on sale on the black market. It’d bring millions. Sculpted pecs, an eight-pack to die for, muscular arms, so much silky skin on display, covered in beautiful ink.
Really beautiful ink, though it’s not enough to distract me from the beauty of his body. A scorpion on his side. Colorful sleeves on both arms. A big dragon flowing over his shoulder, fanged mouth opening on his chest. A scar under the colors. Names inked on his ribs on one side, the words “Mi ricordo,” on the other, and I wish I knew what it meant. What looks like a river of blood flowing down to his right hip.
His hands go to the buckle of his belt, drawing my eyes. The snick of it opening, the whoosh of leather against leather, and then he’s shoving his pants down and off. He kicks off his boots, tugs off his socks, and he’s left clad only in his black boxer briefs.
The outline of his hard-on is perfectly visible through the soft cotton, and I feel hot all over. God, this boy’s packing some serious heat down there. It’s both scary and exciting.
I lick my lips, waiting for him to lose this last bit of fabric that’s covering what I’m dying to see—but his hands fall away. Why? I lift my hand to touch him there, feel how hard he is—but he grips my hand, lifts it to his mouth and presses a kiss on my palm.
Hot. It makes me tremble. “This is about you,” he whispers against my skin, and his mouth curves in a smile. “I want to make you feel good.”
“You are,” I say as he pushes me back down and presses my hand into the cushions. “It feels good.”
His gaze moves over my breasts, lingering, then dips. I try to close my legs, but he puts his hands on my thighs and slowly parts them until I’m completely exposed.
“You’re not pretty,” he says, his voice hoarse, and before I can work up any anger at this statement, he lowers himself between my legs and whispers, “You’re a goddamn goddess.”
