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I should ask him where we’re going.
I should tell him to stop kissing me because I have an agenda.
Because I need to gather my thoughts and plan my next move.
And if he keeps kissing me the way he is right now, like he needs me more than air and more than food and maybe even more than the sun, the sky and fucking life itself, I won’t be able to stop kissing him back the same way.
I won’t be able to stop moving against him also.
Which is what I’m doing right now.
Aren’t I?
I’m moving against him, rubbing my body, my tits and my pussy — there, I said it, or at least thought it in my head — against his muscles. Because I think I’ve got an itch.
My nipples need scratching.
And my pussy needs petting.
And I don’t know what else to do or where to go to get that.
Plus I have a feeling that he isn’t going to like it if I go somewhere else to get relief. I wouldn’t like it either.
So he’s my only option.
Not to mention, he keeps kneading my ass.
At some point during our ten-second journey to my bedroom, his arms have moved and now he’s grabbing on to my ass, palming each cheek and massaging the flesh in such a way that I want him to do it without my stupid dress in the way. Maybe I should’ve asked him to burn all my clothes after all. So I’m forced to walk around naked all the time and he can touch my bare skin without all the nonsense in between.
That’s my last thought until my world tilts and my back meets something soft and fluffy.
The sheets on my bed.
They should give me comfort.
I love my sheets.
But they don’t.
Because I think as soon as he lays me down, he’ll stop kissing me and, well, I don’t want him to. Maybe we can talk about the agenda in a second, once I’ve had my fill of cinnamon and spice. So I tighten my thighs around his hips and palm his face to keep our mouths fused.
Plus if he stops, how will I see him naked?
Because that’s what I want.
All of a sudden, I want to see him naked.
I want to see his bronzed skin, his body that he works so hard on. That freaking carried me and my stacks of romance novels four flights of stairs without even a hint of exertion.
The body that was on top of me, pressed up against me and into the same places, thirteen months ago.
I couldn’t see him last time, see.
We never reached that part.
So I want to see him now.
Not to mention, I want to see his penis.
No wait, his dick.
That I’ve only ever seen as a light impression though his threadbare jeans. And from what I’ve seen, I bet it’s huge.
It’s a monster.
And I want it inside of me.
Right now.
Right the fuck now.
And I don’t want any barriers either.
Nope.
No condoms for me. Not now, not ever.
Who even invented condoms? They’re the worst thing in the world.
And when he breaks off the kiss to immediately latch onto my jaw, followed by the freckle on the side of my neck, I mumble, “No c-condoms.”
I’m in the process of tilting my head to the side and baring my neck even more when he stops.
When I lose the sharp but delicious sting of his teeth.
What, why?!
Now I won’t have his lovely teeth marks to look at in the mirror later.
Snapping my eyes open, I’m about to demand an answer when he grabs my jaw and turns my face himself so he can look down at me. When I’m lined up, he wraps his fingers around my throat — oh fuck, why do I love that so much — making me whimper and undulate my body against his, as he asks, “What was that?”
His voice is a thick growl that makes me whimper anew.
He increases the pressure around my throat, making me gasp in delight. “What. Was that?”
I blink a few times, trying to catch my breath.
Trying to focus on what he’s asking me.
But if he keeps holding my throat like this, I probably won’t be able to do any of that. “I don’t… I’m not…”
“What the fuck did you mean,” he growls, his eyes black and thunderous, “by no condoms?”
“N-no condoms,” I breathe out.
He stares at me for a couple of seconds.
Then in a flash, he lets go of my throat and jerks away from me. He springs back to his feet, his hair all rumpled and messy, his t-shirt wrinkled and his plush mouth swollen and pinker.
All thanks to our kiss just now.
And I want him back so I can ruffle him some more.
But I don’t think he’s coming back.
Even all messy and tousled, he looks like his mind is on other things as he runs his eyes all over my body, a muscle jumping on his cheek.
