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I can’t get enough. I pull her close and want her closer. I sink my fingers so deep into her damp hair that the bun on top of her head comes undone and her curls tumble down her back. I don’t want to rip my mouth from hers, but ultimately indulge my searing need to taste her earlobe, her neck—andGod, I want to go lower, but I force myself to stay above her shoulders.
I haven’t kissed anyone since high school. I thought it was because I’ve been too focused on baseball; I thought it was because of the shit happening in my life. And of course that’s been part of it, but I’m realizing now that I haven’t been telling myself the whole truth.
I haven’t kissed anybody in over three years because I’ve been circling in Azalea’s orbit, hoping this moment would come around.
It was worth the wait.
We stumble around in each other’s arms, unsure of where to go. It’s decided for us when the backs of my legs hit my bed and I lose my balance, tumbling backward onto the mattress and bringing her down with me.
“Oof,” I grunt as she lands hard on my chest, her hair flying into my face.
For a moment she lays there, still, and I’m afraid she’s somehow gotten hurt. Then she pushes herself up on her hands and knees, caging me in with her body, and starts giggling uncontrollably. I laugh, too, the kind of laugh that’s only been coming out of my mouth around her lately. We grin at each other like a couple of idiots.
I can’t tell her yet. It’s too soon. But damn if those three words aren’t on the tip of my tongue.
The fact that the TV is still blaring swims into my awareness, and I grapple for the remote. Reaching around Azalea, I turn the power off in the middle of the Yankees-Red Sox highlight reel. Usually, I would be glued to that; right now, not even the biggest rivalry in sports can hold my attention.
“Finally had enough baseball?” she asks teasingly.
“No.” I twist my hands in her t-shirt, letting my knuckles skim the soft skin underneath. “Just not enough you.”
I can tell that lands favorably with her, because she lowers her head and pulls me into another kiss. Her hands begin to drift down my neck, over my chest, along my ribs. Every touch singes. I almost expect to look in the mirror tomorrow and see red marks everywhere.
My brain short-circuits and I lose sight of my intentions, my limits; all I know is that I’m grabbing a handful of her ass and squeezing, and she’s whimpering into my mouth, and I think that sound is the hottest thing that’s happened in this hotel room tonight. I slip my other hand under her shirt, skating it over the curve of her belly, stopping just short of where I really want to be.
Azalea breaks the kiss but doesn’t go far. “It’s okay,” she whispers, her breath ghosting over my lips.
“Are you sure?”
“You already admitted to staring at them.” Her tone is teasing as she nudges her nose against mine. “Put your hands on them.”
Her words make me draw in a sharp breath. She laughs at me, but I don’t give a fuck; I’m too focused on curling my fingers around her breast, testing its weight in my palm.
“I’m not wearing a bra,” she says unnecessarily.
“I knew that.” I nudge her nipple with my thumb, drawing a sharp inhale from her. “It was really obvious when you came out of the bathroom.”
Shetsks. “Always staring.”
Laughing, I roll us over so I’m lying on top of her. “If you want me to stop staring, stop being so hot.”
Azalea tries to bite back a grin and fails, her deep dimple giving her away. I press a kiss to it before recapturing her lips. My hand is still up her shirt, and she pushes mine up too, her warm palms flattening against my bare skin for the first time.
That touch kills my last brain cell, and my self-control quickly follows. I roll my hips down into hers, she releases a surprised gasp into my mouth, and it’s that exhalation that shifts our pace from exploratory to frantic. For an intense few seconds, our kisses are sloppy; our hands grope; our lower halves grind together.
She breaks away, and I immediately duck my head to nip at her throat. “Maverick,” she gasps out, “hold on. Hold on.”
My brain is slow to process her words, but it gets there, and I lift my body off hers. “What’s wrong?”
Azalea stays put, and I greedily take her in: hair spread across the pillows, blush spreading to her collarbones, bare stomach on display where her shirt has ridden up. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she tries to catch her breath. “We were getting a little crazy,” she says, head lolling to the side so she can see me better. “I don’t want us to rush.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” I climb off the bed and turn away, trying to be subtle as I adjust my shorts.
Please don’t let her regret it.
Please.
I look back and relax when I see that she’s made herself comfortable in my bed, curling up on top of the comforter. I want to keep my lower half hidden for a while longer, so I slide under the covers, facing her. “Is this okay?” I ask.
