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Frost
Hot.
Wet.
Sweet.
So fucking sweet.
Amora’s lips are the best thing I’ve ever felt. Ever tasted. I crush my mouth to hers, wrapping my arms around her lithe, muscular body as I pin her more tightly against me.
I’m drowning in her. Or maybe I’m the ocean, and she’s the one drowning. The need that rises inside me is so sharp and acute that I’m afraid I might hurt her. I try to force my arms to relax. To let her go. To let her breathe.
But I can’t.
From the first moment I saw her, I wanted her, in a way I’ve never wanted anyone else. I craved her. Not just her physical body, but her heart, her mind, her soul. I want to know all of her, want to sit by her side and rest my head in her lap and wrap my body around hers to keep her safe from everything that might ever try to hurt her.
I don’t know what to call this feeling.
Obsession?
That doesn’t seem like enough. None of it is enough. I can’t get close enough to her, can’t kiss her deeply enough, can’t touch enough of her perfect skin.
Our teeth clash together as she opens her mouth, and as our tongues slide together, I taste the coppery tang of blood. I don’t know if it’s hers or mine. A jolt of worry spikes through me—don’t hurt her—and I wrench my mouth away from hers.
Her beautiful, full lips are swollen and pink, with a small streak of red smeared across them. But when I dart my tongue out to lick my own lips, I feel a slight sting as my tongue grazes over a cut.
The blood came from me, then.
Not her.
Good.
“Shit, Frost. Are you oka—”
Before Amora can finish speaking, I drag her toward me again, kissing her as if it’s been a thousand years since our lips last touched and not a few seconds. I can still taste the blood in our kiss, but now that I know it’s mine, I don’t care about it. I’m barely aware of it, too high on the taste of her skin to notice the sharp, coppery flavor.
I’m still afraid that I might be hurting her, but some of the fear fades as she kisses me back the same way I’m kissing her. Like she’ll die if she doesn’t. Like maybe she’s already dying, and this is all she wants to do with her last breath.
My cock is thickening and hardening, pressing up against the fabric of my pants as if it would break through just to get to her. She whimpers into my mouth, grinding her hips toward mine and making my balls tighten as she rubs against my shaft.
“Amora,” I whisper in a rough voice. Not because I have something else to say or because I want to talk.
I just want to hear her name.
Just want to say it.
“Fuck. Frost.” She gasps the words back, and as pleasurable as it was to murmur her name into her mouth, it’s even better to hear her say mine. Her voice is thick and husky, and it makes my cock pulse even harder, a shudder working its way down my spine.
More.
I pull away from the kiss again, but this time it’s not to check for blood. I tug awkwardly at the fabric of her robe, trying to pull it down and off her shoulders. She wriggles her body, helping me get it down her arms, and when the soft robe comes free, I toss it to the floor, paying no attention to where it lands.
Maybe it never lands. I don’t fucking care.
My attention is arrested, consumed entirely by the sight in front of me.
Amora, completely bare, her perfect breasts rising and falling as she breathes hard.
“Beautiful,” I whisper.
That’s not a good enough word either. The English language is failing me today. Obsession? Beautiful? But a dusky flush rises up Amora’s chest, staining her cheeks, and the forest green of her eyes turns a little darker in response to my words. She steps closer to me again, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her body full-length against mine.
My cock throbs, and another tremor of pleasure runs through me. I drop my head, not taking her lips with mine this time, but exploring the soft curve of her neck and shoulder instead. This part of her tastes sweet too, different but no less addictive than her lips.
She tilts her head to one side, letting out a sound almost like a purr as her nails scrape against my upper back through my shirt.
Too much.
There’s too much between us still, a layer of fabric that I suddenly hate.
Reaching one hand over my head, I tug my shirt off. We barely separate long enough for me to drag it over my head, and the second our bodies touch again, a groan spills from my lips. Her skin feels like the softest satin against mine. The hard peaks of her nipples press against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her again, pressing her so tightly to me that no air can fit between us.
Bed.
I want to be on the bed with her.
Only a small part of my brain can focus on where the bed is, so we stumble a little as I walk her backward toward the duvet-covered mattress. When we reach it, we both almost topple onto it. I steady her, tightening my grip, and then lift her and lay her back on the soft blanket.
When I straighten, my throat goes tight. My nostrils flare, but no air passes in or out.
Perfect.
Her dark hair splays out on the cream colored duvet, rich and shiny and lovely. Her chest rises and falls as she works to catch her breath, and when my gaze travels farther down her body, I have to grit my teeth as a surge of arousal bursts through me. It’s like a dam breaking, intense enough that I almost come where I stand.
I grit my teeth, reaching down to squeeze my cock. No. Not yet.
