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I could have kissed him. All it would take was a shift. Just a few inches, and those lips could be mine.
“Daisy,” he whispered.
“Yes?” I answered, lifting my chin both to look into his eyes and to angle my mouth for his.
“I …” His eyes still on my lips, his brow heavy with unknown pain. “I can’t…”
My own pain cut jagged. My chin fell, my eyes casting away. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
Confused, I glanced back up at him only to be crushed by the weight of his gaze. One hand moved to cup my jaw, to tilt my face up to his as if to pour himself into me. The other slid to my waist and pulled until our bodies were flush.
He can’t want me. He can’t ever love me. He can’t do this, not with me. He can’t—
“I can’t stop myself,” he said, shaking from restraint.
Relief washed over me, left me sinking into his arms. “Then don’t.”
It was a plea met with a long moment of indecision. War behind depthless eyes.
The breath he took pulled me closer, and as he descended, I rose to meet him with a crash of lips and a crack of thunder, the boom of both shuddering through us. We wound together, my arms twisting around his neck and his around my waist tight enough to lift me off the ground. The sweep of his tongue against mine forced my mouth open wider, our lips sealed and seeking. Two steps, and I was pinned against the barn door by his hips. A moan into his mouth was answered by the deep rumble of his own, his hand sliding down my hip to my thigh. When I lifted my knee to brush his leg, he pulled that thigh up to his waist and held it strongly enough to bear my weight. So I let it go, sank into his grip, felt the heat of him pressed against the heat of me.
Bruising was the kiss, punishing and possessive as his hands, as the roll and grind of his hips. His free hand cupped my breast, cold from the rain, warmed by his palm that shifted against my peaked nipple. That hand wandered south without hesitation, hitching my skirt, testing the shape of my ass, sliding around my hip to the skin low on my stomach. His hips were gone in favor of that massive hand cupping my sex through my panties, the thick of his middle finger stroking the hot line of my very core.
I broke the kiss with a gasp, my eyes slammed shut and head pressed against the wooden door, an equal force to match the pressure from his palm. He paused, and I knew with deepening despair that he’d realized what we were doing. He’d do what he thought was the right thing, the logical thing. The respectful thing. He’d stop, and I’d forever wish he hadn’t.
My eyes opened slow, lids heavy, my body pulsing with every shift of his fingers, mourning what was sure to be the end. Our swollen lips panted, and his forehead came to mine.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
My heart lurched, heat sinking low in my belly. “Don’t. Please don’t.”
A gentle groan, the soft capture of my lips. The flex of his hand, the flex of my core against it.
“If I kiss you again, I’m going to fuck you, Daisy.”
Desire was a hot knife through me, and there was nothing to say, but, “Kiss me.”
A breath, and he did with slow purpose and determined hands. Hands that rid me of panties, hands that slid under my shirt, hooked the cup of my bra, released my breast so skin could taste skin. My own fingers were clumsy, fumbling with his belt, sliding into his pants, seeking the hot steel of his cock. At my touch, he throbbed in my palm. But that was my only taste before there was no room to tease, no room at all. He was everywhere, in every breath I drew and in every inch of my skin, one hand gripping his base, guiding himself to my center.
The slow slide of our bodies was breathless, the deep fullness I felt emptying my lungs. There was no room for air. No room for anything but him.
He took my mouth as he took the rest of me, with ferocious care. It had been too long since I’d been touched like this to have time to savor him—I nearly came when he filled me the first time. A few well-placed thrusts, and the world caught fire from within me, a ringing silence, a deafening quiet as my body stopped and started again anew, baptized by release.
He held himself deep inside me, breathing into my neck as I flexed and squeezed and drew him deeper. I wanted his hips in motion, though distantly, I understood why they weren’t. He held on to his orgasm as long as he could stand it. Two thrusts, and when he groaned and pulled out, I kept myself steady and reached for him, slick from my body, then from his own, stroking him until he was spent.
