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ChapterThirty-Three
Just like duringour kiss at the Botanical Garden, I experience an ethereal, out-of-body joy. If we were to float off the bed, I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.
Breathing heavily, Art pulls back to meet my gaze. The heat in his melted-chocolate eyes could caramelize sugar on a dozen crèmes brûlées. “I want you,” he murmurs, and the hunger in his voice sends an erotic shiver down my spine.
My heart hammers hard against my ribs as I kick the stifling blanket off of us. “Oh? Can you be more specific?”
Can melted-chocolate turn into magma? “I want to make you come all over my face,” he says, enunciating every word. “And after that, all over my cock.”
That I can speak is a miracle. “What about Rule One?”
“Fuck Rule One,” he growls.
I lick my lips. “What about the agreement with my parents? No one is supposed to be having sex under our roof for the next eighteen hours.”
“Fuck that too.” He sits up on the bed and yanks off his T-shirt.
Oh, my.
Those abs.
That V that leads to Mr. Big.
To paraphrase Matthew McConaughey in Magic Mike, there are going to be “a lotta lawbreakers up in this house tonight.”
I sit up and take my PJ top off as well.
His eyes roam over my exposed flesh as if it were an all-you-can-eat cupcake buffet, and his voice roughens further. “You’re perfect, kislik.”
Kiss and lick are what I want too. I jump off the bed and wriggle out of my pants. “You’re not bad yourself.”
He takes in my legs, his nostrils flaring as he swings his feet to the floor. “Like I said, fucking perfect.”
Standing up, he rips off his pajama pants—and I do mean rips, into shreds of cotton.
As I face Mr. Big sober for the first time in real life, the little hairs on the back of my neck rise.
This reminds me of when I first stood under the Empire State Building. Yes, I knew it was large enough for King Kong to climb during that documentary, but once you stand under it, you really appreciate the scale.
Like a star caught in the gravity well of a supermassive black hole, I feel myself drawn into Art’s orbit—and he into mine.
Gripping his shoulders, I rise on tiptoes, and our lips clash once more.
Pure deliciousness. Even better than doughnuts with ice cream.
I feel lightheaded, partly from the oral sensations but much more from his intoxicating scent.
Without removing his lips, Art picks me up and lays me on the bed.
Wow. All that ballerina juggling has imbued him with the manhandling skills of a god.
He nibbles on my lower lip, then moves his ministrations from my mouth to my neck.
Fuck, yeah.
I reach down and stroke Mr. Big.
It’s smooth, like hard candy. Very hard candy.
