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It’s hesitant, at first.
I can feel him questioning himself, feel him holding back, but me—I’m all impulse and fire.
I want this too badly to make it careful and performative.
Just one kiss, I tell myself.
Just one kiss, and then I’ll make myself let this growing infatuation go.
I trace my fingers over his cheekbones, cradle his face in my palms, and lean up into him, turning that hesitant brush of mouths into something firmer and hotter, tilting my head until my lips fuse with his in perfect synchronicity.
Holy sparks.
For such a stern man, there’s a sinful sweetness to his lips that makes my gut bottom out with the sheer sensuality of how divine it feels to kiss August Marshall.
How it feels when our mouths give and take and chase until they find the perfect collision, and everything just clicks.
And how it feels when he kisses me back.
He stiffens, a sound of surprise melting between us.
Then it’s back and forth, trading the same sharp tension as the barbs we normally throw at each other. Only now they’ve turned from soft play into searing heat, all touch and wetness and wildness.
He kisses me so hard, so deep, like he’s demanding my surrender.
Tongue slipping against my lips, darting and teasing, thrusting without giving me that full plunging feeling that would turn me inside out if he’d just do it.
His hands are hard on my body, pressing me against his chest.
I feel like he’ll turn me to dust with the pressure.
His breaths are so hot, his beard dragging against my mouth. I’m close to breaking down and begging him to take me deeper. But I can’t find the words, only more pleading with soft flicks of my tongue, then a single daring nip against his lower lip.
It’s like flipping a switch.
His hold on me tenses, with a harsh growl exploding up his throat.
His lips turn feral, dragging against my mouth in unrelenting strokes.
His tongue plunges deeper, slipping into me hotly and tracing my mouth.
Intimate, melting, relentless.
I’m going down like a shooting star, barely able to breathe, digging my fingers into his hair and parting my lips to beg for more, more, don’t stop, please.
It’s like being kissed by summer lightning.
No warning before it’s all flash and strike and burn.
I want him to burn me down.
And when I slide my tongue along his, arching and begging, pressing into the hardness of his body, he stops.
It’s like someone’s slapped him back to his senses and thrown him away.
There it is again—that almost angry look as he stares down, like I’ve done something to him. He’s certainly done something to me when I can’t stop panting.
My mouth aches with raw, fiery need.
