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“That’s sweet,” he murmurs. “But before you start thanking me, let me give you something to be grateful for, beautiful.”
My lips part to tell him I’m already grateful, but before I can speak, his mouth finds mine, needy, urgent, hungry.
This isn’t a soft and tender first kiss.
It’s a downright claiming.
His big hands cup my cheeks, and as he holds my face, he devours my lips. My knees go weak. Tingles spread everywhere. My insides hum. Holy hell. This is kissing. This is kissing like I’ve never been kissed before.
I feel owned, and I relish it as his tongue explores me, his teeth nipping, his faint stubble rubbing against me. Everything, all of it, sets off a swirl of sensations inside me, making those sugar-rush butterflies spin like they’re caught up in a hurricane.
I’ve spent so many nights dreaming about the taste and feel of him—from the days when I imagined him kissing me at homecoming, to sometime last week when I woke up from a dirty dream starring Graham in a pair of running shorts and nothing else. But no fantasy could ever have prepared me for this. He tastes exactly like I thought he would, like mint and salt and that clove-and-brown-sugar aftershave he wears.
And, oh, how I want to be thinking deep, meaningful thoughts. Or at least taking copious mental notes about how un-freaking-believable this feels, but all I can think is Holy crap, Graham is kissing me. He’s kissing me, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened to my mouth, bar none. Forget gourmet cupcakes and that chocolate bar from Paris. They’ve got nothing on this man’s drop-dead sexy lips.
You’re going to be hooked in one go, like a drug addict . . .
The thought flitters through my mind, funny and scary at the same time, before I lose the ability to process any thoughts or feelings aside from the intense sensation of heat—sizzling, burning, exploding like a thousand fireworks inside me.
Graham wraps his arms around my waist and tangles his fingers in my hair, holding my mouth prisoner, though there’s no need. I have absolutely no urge to escape.
No, I want to be right here. Right now. With Graham kissing me as if he’s never wanted anything as much in his life. His tongue, lips, teeth, and powerful chest are all pressed to mine, assuring me of his commitment to lesson one.
Oh, lesson one, you’re already so much better than I could have hoped . . .
“Yes,” I murmur as his lips drift down my jawline and tug aside the fabric of my blouse, baring my collarbone.
“Yes?” he echoes. “So far, so good?”
“So, so good,” I assure him, my fingers driving into his thick hair as he drags his teeth across the skin at the base of my neck.
“Good. Because that’s what tonight is about. Making you feel good. You shouldn’t worry about pleasing any man until he’s proven he can please you.”
My heart beats faster, the sentiment thrilling me. Or maybe it’s just that I’m already falling under this wild spell of sensation, this kiss that feels like a prelude to so much more. To everything I’ve never experienced but so desperately want.
Deftly, with an ease that makes this crazy thing we’re doing seem wholly sane, he cups my breast, his thumb rubbing the outline of my nipple. His touch sends sparks racing through me, and my entire body screams with arousal as he tilts my head back, leaving me to stare helplessly up at the ceiling as his tongue laves my neck.
“First lesson,” he rasps against my skin. “The public quickie. Tell me you’re ready.”
Public? Is this public?
Dim red light casts shadows on lush burgundy walls. The notes of faraway jazz music skitter through the air in this dark little room, but it feels like we’re alone. Not that it really matters—right now, I would say yes to anything Graham wanted to do to me. Anything, anywhere, as long as he doesn’t stop making me feel like I’m shot through with starlight.
My lips part to tell him so, but I can’t seem to make my vocal cords cooperate. I can’t remember ever feeling this overwhelmed by pure, electric sensation.
“Tell me,” Graham urges, teasing my nipple harder through the fabric of my blouse.
“Yes!” I gasp, as his other hand skims the hem of my skirt, roughly edging it up over my thighs as my brain begins chanting oh my God, oh my God over and over.
“Perfect.” His voice is calm and controlled, as if he isn’t the least bit affected by the dark magic he’s working on my body. “Now turn around for me, Butterfly.”
I do as I’m told, spinning to find myself staring at my own reflection, but I don’t look like myself. I look wild, hungry, and . . . sexy as hell.
