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Unable to stop the craving to feel my body against his, I crawl on him and lower down onto his sturdy thighs.
“Now, about that thing you forgot?” His eyes drop to my mouth. “I’ll take it now.”
“What?” I place my palms on either side of his head on the cushion and sway toward him. “This?” I press my lips to his.
I let us melt together for a magnetic moment, then pull back with a little smile.
His hand grips the back of my neck. “Yes.” He draws my mouth back to his, putting all thoughts out of service.
Our mouths become one, compounded by desire, grasping for control and freedom simultaneously. Lost and found. Shattered and unbroken. With each capture of my mouth, he steals unfounded emotions. Draws them from me only to return them back by way of his heated and mind-numbing kiss.
My hips gyrate. Palms press deeper into the cushion, fearful of touching his wounded face and charged with energy and heat. His hardness makes its impression between my legs.
I release my frustration with a needy moan, breaking from his mouth. Breaths heavy, chest rising and falling, clear evidence of losing my composure. I find his veiled eyes.
“I’m not Miranda,” I say, voice trembling the truth.
Eyes narrowing, his head flinches.
“I don’t want you as a distraction,” I clarify with a more resolute tone.
His head drops back onto the cushion. He studies me for a few seconds, and his brow arches. “Then why do you want me?”
I press my lips together. I want to say it. Tell him the truth. Tell him how I feel but my past stunts my voice.
“I can tell you. Why I want you,” he says, confidence dripping in each word. “Do you want to hear it?”
Lips still pressed tightly together. I drop my head with a nod backed by nothing but uncertainty.
“Okay,” he says with a resolute gleam in his eyes. “When I look at you, this fucked-up world disappears, and all that’s left is you.” He sits up and palms my face. “Beautiful, strong, and compassionate you.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “You confuse me in the best of ways. I need to know more. I want more of you. Fuck, I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.” His thumb runs over my lips. “And don’t get me started about what you do to my body.”
Thoughts staggered, caught in what he said, I fumble for a heartfelt response. He sliced what is happening between us wide open with his words. His feelings spill inside, filling me with hope and dreams. But I know better. So my fight resumes.
“I can feel what I do to your body,” I say, crushing it with a playful smile. Taking my heart from the equation, I concentrate on his thickness, teasing my wet and ready pussy.
He leans in close. His warm breath bathes my mouth, taunting it with what’s to come. “Your turn.”
This is it. The moment of truth. My truth. Why is it so hard for me to say it? Why must I fight him at every turn? I know why, but is it all that scary? What’s the worst that could happen?
“When I’m with you”—I hold his awaiting gaze—“you make me question myself.”
“How so?”
“Like…” I pause, imploring the courage to continue.
He grips my shirt and pulls it over my head, refueling my strength. “Go on,” he says, challenging me further.
“Like does he forget to breathe when he looks at me too?”
He slips his finger beneath my bra and easily removes that as well. “I do,” he says, stroking me with his daring eyes.
I think I might like where this is going. Okay. I can do this. “Does he think of me when I’m not around?”
He stands. I clamp my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bedroom, lays me on the bed, and removes his shirt.
Standing over me, he looks down into my eyes. “I do.”
I take in his hard smoothness, muscular chest, and the tightness of his stomach.
