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“Oh my God. Why are you like this?”
She burrows into me, practically hiding.
Amazing how my shameless, brazen girl gets so flustered when we talk feelings.
You get her mad and she’ll cuss you blue, but tell her you care?
Well, hell, she’ll probably still cuss you blue.
I’m not wrong.
After a sullen moment, she slips a hand up, her hot little palm against the back of my neck, and pulls me down toward her.
“Enough, you sentimental ass,” she says, lifting her head enough for me to catch sparking blue eyes that snap hot. It’s not real anger no matter how much she pretends. “Just shut up and kiss me.”
“Woman,” I growl, “you don’t need to ask me twice.”
Normally we kiss like wildfire, two forces of nature coming together.
Right now, I kiss her like she’s delicate, tender and soft and slow, even if I’m half expecting her to rip me a new asshole and tell me to stop messing around.
Instead, she just melts, sighing as her lips part and press real sweet to mine.
Eventually I gather her up and carry her upstairs.
It’s so careful, so slow as I lay her down on the bed.
She twines her arms around my neck and traces her fingers down the back of my neck, touching me gently. The heat between us is no less intense than when we rip at each other and leave each other bruised.
Still, there’s something different this time.
It’s unspoken, and the way she touches me is something else too.
Need, I get.
Need is this intense thing, a compulsion that can’t be denied.
It’s a whole different thing when your girl touches you like she wants you.
When it’s not a compulsion, but when she’s deciding she wants it and wants you.
It’ll fuck a man right up in all the best ways.
And she’s got me completely scrambled as her delicate, calloused hands caress my jaw, stroking my beard, slipping down my neck, onto my chest—moving with the rhythm of our lips as we kiss with a slow-burn intensity.
Time stops existing.
There’s no rush.
We own the moment.
Just us.
I take my sweet time kissing her, exploring her mouth, touching her, tracing the curves of her shoulders, her cleavage, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips and belly, the toned fullness of her thighs.
One inch at a time, I tease every little bit of clothing off her, baring hot flesh like I’m trying to memorize her, to imprint her on my palms.
Her skin’s velvet. It’s a pure pleasure just touching it, feeling how she grows tenser, then melts all over again when I find a sensitive spot, playing my fingers against her flesh.
She gives herself up and lets me lead her through soft, sighing gasps until she moves like liquid fire under me—tossing her head from side to side as I explore my way down her body.
The way she moans is fuck-hot.
Utterly addictive.
My face winds up between her legs.
I’ve had her sweet cunt more times than I can count, but today I fucking devour her nice and slow.
Her plush pinkness, her taste, her scent, every little bit of Liberty Potter becomes property of my tongue. It’s so intense I can’t tell if she’s begging for more or for a reprieve by the end.
I choose wisely.
Pull her clit between my teeth, lash it with my tongue, and bring her off like a shrieking rocket. My hands drag her hips into me, making her ride my face, dousing myself in her cream while I glorify her sweetness with my beard.
She comes so hard I bet she sees her stars tonight without any sky.
I’m rock-hard and ravenous as hell by the time I come up, still licking her off my lips.
Her tan lines greet my eyes as she sinks against the mattress, still panting.
They make me throb like with a devil’s fever. There’s something about the color in this woman, the contrasts, that fucks my eyes.
The mellow pinkness of her nipples, the shadow of her inner thighs, the wetness of slick flesh. I slip my fingers back in her and as she spreads her legs, loving how she sucks in a breath.
There’s nothing about her that isn’t fascinating.
Entrancing.
Beautiful.
And I feel like I worship her for hours again with my tongue and my fingers, slipping in and out of her in slow, deep thrusts, guiding her toward her peak one shuddering breath at a time.
Until her shoulders jerk—until she closes her thighs against my hand, trapping it, reaching for me with splayed fingers.
I reluctantly drag my hand away and watch as she flips over, ass up and prone.
“Holt,” she whispers, practically begging. “Come with me! I want you to come in me.”
With me.
Good goddamn.
Doesn’t she know I’m always with her?
I get what she wants because it’s the same for me.
Growling, I lace my fingers with hers and cover her body with mine.
“Give me those lips,” I whisper.
