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He moved his free hand slowly, dragged his fingers up her side. Hungry to touch all of her, but enjoying the slow anticipation, he was careful to keep his hand in appropriate places. Knowing his thumb hovered so close to the curve of her breast made his cock stir with longing. Knowing he wouldn’t touch her, not yet, made his balls ache.
Wondering about what it might be like—romancing her, lying her down on her bed, and pressing kisses all over her skin, kissing her tattoos and drinking her soul in—made his heart pound. This was all the good stuff. Why did so many people these days want to hit a drive through when making love should be a feast?
“Cass.” Her whisper brushed his parted lips as he combed his fingers up into her short black hair. As if she had kissed him, as if his name was a kiss from her lips, Cass took a breath, moved his lips as if to kiss her.
Eyes locked again, Marlowe lifted her hands to frame his face.
“Is this how you make love?” She pressed into him, her breasts resting on his chest. Eyebrows arched in a challenge now, she let her eyes slide over his face. He wondered what she saw there, if she could see how badly he wanted her.
7
Marlowe
He answered her, his voice low and gruff.
Yes.
Marlowe felt a ribbon of lust unfurl low in her belly. She wanted him to kiss her, but that voice, the movement of his lips—he could talk to her all night and make her come.
She hadn’t. Not for a long time. And as much as she craved his touch, she liked this pace, the anticipation. She wanted all of him, and her skin was on fire, waiting to see where he would touch her next.
“This is how I make love.” He leaned closer and rubbed his lips lightly over her forehead. “Why rush something that should be beautiful and passionate?”
Weak at the knees, Marlowe dug her fingers into his shoulders to hold on. They swayed as one to the music, but she was so focused on his lips, so hungry for him to kiss her, she barely noticed their middles pressed together.
No one had ever said anything like that to her. Not words like that. Marlowe knew on some intellectual level that sex was supposed to be beautiful and passionate, but she hadn’t experienced that in her life. For her, it had been yet another way to act out against the rage, the pain, of losing her mother so young. And her act of rebellion had evolved into something fun, something pleasurable, but she still couldn’t put her finger on a time when a man she was with actually made love to her.
Eyes locked with Cass’, she licked her lips, noticing when his gaze dipped to watch her. She wasn’t trying to be coy; she was bone dry and hot, and desperate for a drink.
Or a kiss.
Unnerved when Cass’ gaze lingered on her lips, Marlowe dragged her teeth over her bottom lip, and finally, she dragged her own gaze down over his face to look at his lips again. Would they be warm? Or cool? The perfect lines of his face made him look like a work of art, like stone or clay. And yet, pressed to him as she was, his body heat sinking into her, Marlowe imagined his lips, his mouth would be like hot silk.
Behind her, anyone in Rodey could approach the windows and peek in and watch her dancing with this stranger. And even though she knew the entire population of Rodey was probably tucked away in bed for the night, she didn’t care if any or all of them were standing right outside.
Right now, nothing existed but the music. The tree across the room and the glow of the lights. And Cass’ hands on her—one hand holding her chin, touching her lip in what felt like an explicit caress and the other hand in her hair. Cass looked her in the eye again and tipped his head just enough to almost touch her lips with his.
She felt the warmth of his breath on her skin just as he moved away. Shifting her a bit as they danced, Cass smoothed his hand down over her back and spread his fingers over her waist. Her belly quivered with his nearness, with the graze of his lips—this time touching the corner of her mouth soft, like a feather.
As much as she wanted to take his head in her hands and yank him in to devour him, Marlowe was learning his game. He might drive her crazy with kisses like this all night. If she were naked under him right now, he might edge her, make her beg. And somehow, she understood even without being in that position, it would feel that much more incredible if and when he did touch her.
Her panties wet now with her mind in bed with Cass, she wondered if he could feel the way her heart was pounding. Aware now of their bodies touching, of his erection pressing into her, Marlowe’s nipples tightened and chafed in her lace bra. Electric anticipation tingled in her fingertips and her belly.
His kiss was like a whisper, the press of his dry lips to hers so gentle. And yet, she felt it everywhere—low in the pit of her stomach, in her nipples, her fingers. He hovered there, his chin tucked, his lips so close to hers, almost touching.
When he moved, pressed her mouth again, she eased back and tipped her head up to look at him. Her low moan might have been approval. Maybe frustration. She felt both things. And so much more.
Another almost kiss, like children playing house—afraid, nervous, about that intimacy. But for Marlowe, it was anticipation that roared like flames in her belly and then exploded out of her and flared through her limbs.
When he finally settled his lips firmly over hers, she sighed—relief, pleasure, her thirst quenched. And still, he didn’t hurry. Her skin sparked as he brushed his mouth over hers, the kisses simple, sweet, but certainly not chaste. Not with the heat, with the way her body vibrated with need and hope.
Marlowe played along, wondering, hoping, the cat and mouse kisses turned him on the same way. Was he aware of the dark windows behind her? Was he worrying about his buddies and the bachelor party he ducked out on? Or, like her, was he on a different plane of existence? She wouldn’t say cloud nine, because there was nothing heavenly or celestial about how she was feeling right now.
Kissing him, this sober, intense stranger in her bar, was like robbing a bank. Marlowe had never done it, never considered it, and tomorrow, maybe she would think it was all a dream. But for now, she was ready to grab the gold and run.
Clearly in charge of the pace, of their dance moves—only their hips swayed a slight bit now—Cass kissed her harder, nudged her lips with his. Still sweet, curious kisses—as if he needed to press the center of her upper lip and then slide his own to the corner of her mouth and even graze his lips over her cheek.
The music around them was slow, romantic, as if Cass had ordered up a playlist of sexy holiday tunes. The Carpenters were more her parents’, even her grandparents’ speed, and yet kissing Cass to “Merry Christmas Darling” couldn’t have been more fitting.
