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His frown deepens. “Then what is it?”
I blurt out the first thing I think of. “Haven’t you made a vow of celibacy?”
“Shit.” His hand drops from my hair, and I immediately miss his touch. “Yeah. When I’m with you, I forget all about that.”
That’s a sweet confession, but…
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Messing around with you isn’t messing with my practices.”
“And how’s school going?”
“Jesus, woman. That is the last thing I want to talk about.” He hauls me toward him almost roughly, his mouth on mine. It’s an aggressive kiss. Possessive. Like he’s trying to make me forget about all of those responsibilities we have, so we can focus solely on each other.
And it’s working. I forget all about homework and celibacy vows and what people might think if they knew we were together right now. He consumes me, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, his hands gripping my hips. I let him, drowning in his taste, his possessiveness. No one has ever kissed me like this.
Not even Bryan.
The kiss is raw and hot and maybe even a little filthy, his tongue insistent. I’m moaning, circling my arms around his neck, rising on tiptoes to get closer to him. His erection rubs against my stomach, hard and insistent, and I gasp when he grabs hold of me and whirls me around, depositing me onto his bed.
I land on the mattress with a bounce, sitting up so I’m perched on the edge of the bed. I watch as he tears off his hoodie, revealing that he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt underneath. Meaning, I’m staring at nothing but pure, defined muscle.
My mouth goes dry as I take him in. His broad, smooth shoulders and his defined pecs. There’s a tiny bit of golden-brown hair between them that matches the color on his head, and a tease of a trail that leads from his navel and disappears beyond the waistband of his jeans.
And then there are his abs.
Holy. Shit.
“You’ve got a six-pack.”
He glances down at himself before meeting my gaze once more. “It’s actually an eight-pack, but yeah.”
Good lord.
“I cannot compete.” I wave a hand toward him, my fingers wiggling in the air. “With this.”
“What do you mean?”
I have stretchmarks and a hint of cellulite on the back of my thighs. Sometimes after I eat, I get bloated, and I look like I’m pregnant. Bryan even asked me that once the summer after our freshman year in college, after we went and had all-you-can-eat pasta at a local Italian restaurant one night for dinner. The panic in his eyes and his voice would’ve been amusing, if I hadn’t felt so freaking insulted.
“I don’t work out,” is all I say, rather than going on a word-vomit rant about my lack of muscles and the fact that I eat too much, thanks to my sweet tooth.
“You look pretty damn good to me.” He scans me from head to toe, and even in my distress, my skin blooms with heat at the hunger in his gaze.
“I have cellu—”
He cuts me off. “You really think I’m checking for flaws when I finally get you naked?”
His question leaves me flustered, which I think is all part of his plan. He really wants to get me naked? “Maybe—”
“No.” He shakes his head, his voice hard. “I don’t.”
Well. I can’t argue with that.
He’s on me in seconds, gently pushing me backwards so I’m lying on the bed. He straddles my hips, his face above mine, his hands resting on either side of my head. I’m completely surrounded by him, all of that delicious heat and those hard muscles, his gaze zeroed in on me and no one else, and it’s overwhelming, having Knox Maguire singularly focused on me.
On top of me.
