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PEYTON
A few blocksfrom Micah’s house, I text Reese while at a stoplight.
Peyton: Might not be home tonight. FYI
Reese: I expect details.
I don’t respond. Last thing I need is an endless back-and-forth exchange with Reese before possibly taking my relationship with Micah next level. Reese is the brother I never had. And who talks with their brother before making out—or more—with someone. Certainly not me.
Micah parks in the driveway and I pull in behind him. Turning off the headlights, I cut the engine, stare out the windshield, and take a deep breath.
“This is Micah,” I mumble to myself as I watch him exit his truck. “The man you’ve been kissing for weeks. The man who’s gone down on you.” He steps closer to my car and I take another deep breath. “Don’t go acting shy now.”
One last deep inhale through my nose, then I open the door on the exhale. I lock the car before he takes my hand and guides us inside. Neither of us says a word, but the silence is pleasant. Tranquil and a little energizing.
With each button he presses to unlock the door, my pulse thumps a faster rhythm. A thin layer of moisture slicks my palms and I pray to whoever hears my call to not let Micah notice.
As we step into the house, I expect him to maul me. To slam me against the door and crush my mouth with his. Pin my hands over my head and grind his erection against the junction of my thighs. Moan my name and bite my lip.
But none of this happens.
We step inside and he guides us to the couch. Gives me a chaste kiss on the lips, lets go of my hand and goes to the fridge for water. After a sip, he offers me one. I take it in the hopes it will cool off my immeasurable fever and wake my rational side.
Does he sense my low-level anxiety over what might happen? God, how embarrassing. I feel like a trembling virgin. Who knows why? My virginity flew out the window more than a decade ago. And I haven’t exactly been celibate—although, it has been a while.
When he turns the television on and starts an episode of Supernatural, I start to second-guess every thought from tonight. We kick off our shoes and settle into the couch. When he tugs me closer to him, I stop thinking and sag into the warmth of his frame. After fifteen minutes, my anxiety vanishes and I curl into his side and rest my head on his shoulder.
Three-quarters through the episode, Micah kisses the top of my head. The gesture sweet as his lips linger for a beat. I tip my chin up to return the kiss. The act natural and innocent.
Until the kiss evolves. Grows from chaste pecks to the delicacy of tasting lips. Slow and gentle mixed with heat and the occasional scrape of his stubble.
A hand cups my cheek. Fingers weave through the hair at the base of my skull as he draws me closer and keeps me in place. A match strikes beneath my breastbone when his tongue traces the seam of my lips. The chambers of my heart pound, pound, pound against my rib cage as I gasp and his tongue slips in and tangles with mine.
And then everything explodes. Detonates like a ticking time bomb.
I fist his shirt, throw a leg over his lap, and straddle him. Rock my hips and rub against the thick bulge beneath his zipper. Tangle his tongue with mine before I suck it like a popsicle.
He clamps down on my hips hard enough to bruise me for days. Adds more pressure where I stroke him through our clothes. Sits up straighter, trails a hand up my spine until he reaches the base of my skull, wraps my hair around his fist and jerks my head back.
The motion stings my scalp as I gasp for air. He sucks and bites his way down the column of my throat. Kneads my hip with his other hand. Paints his tongue along my collarbone. My hands glide up his chest, snake around his neck, take hold of his hair and yank. Hard.
His lips break from my skin in a hiss. “Fuck.”
Before I voice a comeback, he scoops under my ass and stands. His lips back on mine as we move through the house. Greed and hunger taste so fucking sweet on his tongue.
And then I am airborne. But not long.
In the dark room, I land on a cloud. Micah crawls up the bed and reinstates our kiss. His hands at the bottom hem of my shirt inch up my body—slow, too slow—as they tug the material away. Lips and teeth and tongue imprint my skin as he unclasps my bra. The skimpy fabric gets tossed aside and replaced with his mouth.
I thread my fingers through his hair as I arch my back and press my breasts into his hungry mouth. He grips my wrists, breaks my hold on him, and pins my hands to the mattress. Clamps down on my nipple before popping it from his lips and paying equal attention to the other.
“Micah,” I whisper-moan into the darkness.
He releases my nipple and hovers above me. Stars burn white hot in his dark irises as he holds my gaze. The intensity in his irises slicks my skin, and I swallow.
“Keep your hands here,” he commands in a thick baritone. I nod and he shakes his head. “No, Peyton. In here, you need to use words.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Won’t move my hands.”
“That’s my hellcat.”
He drops his lips back to mine, kisses me one, two, three times before sucking my lower lip between his. Then his lips leave mine and kiss a trail of fire up the line of my jaw. Nibble on my earlobe as my eyes roll back. Suck the tender skin beneath my ear as I grind my clit against his erection.
As his lips move down my neck, he releases my wrists. Skims the tips of his fingers along my forearms, my triceps as he kisses his way down. Fever flares over my body as he tattoos my skin with his tongue. Marks me as his with his teeth. Bruises my flesh with his mouth.
