Manwhore
Page 33
I’m burning to my bones.
Beyond thought right this second.
I want him so deep I’ll end up broken. I want to forget there are multiple reasons why this isn’t a good idea—because it doesn’t matter if it’s good or even right, only that I give my body what it wants. And all I want right now is looking down at me as if he wants to give it to me too.
I’m scared, but that doesn’t stop me from tipping my head up in offering, my lips parted in complete recklessness. “Do that again,” I whisper. His eyes gleam as he watches me, his gaze somehow male and savoring as I lick my lips and squirm a little beneath him. “Saint . . . do it again . . .” I try again.
He ducks his head, and the second corner kiss is so close to the center of my mouth, I can taste him. Oh god, I want to taste him. He’s teasing me now. Teasing me with kisses and desire, the kind I’ve never felt, and it’s working; I’m aching, throbbing, wanting, dying.
“You like that?”
I nod fast, breathing heavily. “Again . . . please.” I tip my head farther back. He takes in my reaction with dark, hooded eyes, and I remain dazed, struggling to keep my lungs working. He tips my head back at the angle that he wants it.
The air between our bodies feels like fire, the places his thigh touches mine singe me, the tips of my breasts are crushed and hot against his flat chest.
He bends his head and takes my lips—front and center now. If I had just been burned at the stake, the impact would have been less than the hot feel of his tongue pushing my lips apart. I burst up in flames, and he pulls me closer with a rumbling noise as his tongue delves in and strokes mine, dominating, tasting, kissing.
“Do you like that too?” He dips his tongue, hot and wet, into my mouth; then he secures the back of my head in one curved hand and parts his lips and takes me deeper, harder. A rush of sensations knifes through me, and when he angles his head to get another, thorough taste of me, I part my lips wider so that he continues to do what he’s doing, continues rubbing his tongue along mine and feeding me with his indescribably delicious taste.
“Yes,” I moan softly, hungrily breathing his breath. “I can taste you in every inch of me.”
The sound of his hands sliding down the length of my arms, over my clothing, is decadent and delicious. We slant our heads and kiss a little, then a little more. Then his lips soften . . . retreat . . .
A tremor racks through me as his lips brush across my soft wet ones, the ghost of a tantalizing touch.
When we finally part, my mouth tingles, and I can see him perfectly up close. I notice the shifting shades of green in his eyes, the copper flecks scattered inside—not cold, not an ounce of cold right now.
I feel his fingertips graze my temples as he brushes my hair off my forehead to look at me. His hands remain there for what feels like an instant and, at the same time, forever. I blink as I grudgingly remove my hands from his nape and bring them, trembling, to my sides, my eyes focusing on his stunning, virile face.
“I . . . this can’t happen.”
“It’s happened. It’s happening, Rachel.”
His gaze is heavy, thick-lashed as he surveys his handiwork: my lips, wet. Swollen—at least that’s how they feel. I find myself touching his shoulders, nervous. “Saint . . .”
God. I don’t even know what it is I’m asking for.
He’s the sort of guy who’d never be in any woman’s friend zone or brother zone. He’s the sort of guy you fantasize about having for a lover, and he wants me. When he ducks his head, I go up on my toes so our lips meet again. Then we’re tasting, slowly exploring, and when I want to make it go fast because my toes are curling and my body’s trembling, he slows me down with his mouth, his tongue. Perfectly in control, he’s feasting on me and doesn’t want to be rushed. My mouth has become his expedition, and I want to be explored, just like this.
He pulls away—I have to swallow back a protest then.
He stares at me. Eyes, lips, eyes, lips, prolonging the looks a little more every time. I’m in agony. Suddenly I tilt my head and kiss his neck. He groans softly, fisting my hair in his hand, tipping my head back. And there, his lips wait for mine. Our mouths fuse as if each was somehow waiting for the other for a long time. The touch, the heat, is so electric, I pull back with a shocked gasp.
Our eyes meet again. We’re playing this game, kissing, stopping. . . . I can see by the curl of his lip that he’s enjoying it. But I’m not. I’m pained with desire, panting as I fight the urge to rub up against him like a cat, tug his shirt off his chest. I want to eat him up alive, so hard and so fast, I have to fold my fingers into my palms to keep from doing just that.
Beyond thought right this second.
I want him so deep I’ll end up broken. I want to forget there are multiple reasons why this isn’t a good idea—because it doesn’t matter if it’s good or even right, only that I give my body what it wants. And all I want right now is looking down at me as if he wants to give it to me too.
I’m scared, but that doesn’t stop me from tipping my head up in offering, my lips parted in complete recklessness. “Do that again,” I whisper. His eyes gleam as he watches me, his gaze somehow male and savoring as I lick my lips and squirm a little beneath him. “Saint . . . do it again . . .” I try again.
He ducks his head, and the second corner kiss is so close to the center of my mouth, I can taste him. Oh god, I want to taste him. He’s teasing me now. Teasing me with kisses and desire, the kind I’ve never felt, and it’s working; I’m aching, throbbing, wanting, dying.
“You like that?”
I nod fast, breathing heavily. “Again . . . please.” I tip my head farther back. He takes in my reaction with dark, hooded eyes, and I remain dazed, struggling to keep my lungs working. He tips my head back at the angle that he wants it.
The air between our bodies feels like fire, the places his thigh touches mine singe me, the tips of my breasts are crushed and hot against his flat chest.
He bends his head and takes my lips—front and center now. If I had just been burned at the stake, the impact would have been less than the hot feel of his tongue pushing my lips apart. I burst up in flames, and he pulls me closer with a rumbling noise as his tongue delves in and strokes mine, dominating, tasting, kissing.
“Do you like that too?” He dips his tongue, hot and wet, into my mouth; then he secures the back of my head in one curved hand and parts his lips and takes me deeper, harder. A rush of sensations knifes through me, and when he angles his head to get another, thorough taste of me, I part my lips wider so that he continues to do what he’s doing, continues rubbing his tongue along mine and feeding me with his indescribably delicious taste.
“Yes,” I moan softly, hungrily breathing his breath. “I can taste you in every inch of me.”
The sound of his hands sliding down the length of my arms, over my clothing, is decadent and delicious. We slant our heads and kiss a little, then a little more. Then his lips soften . . . retreat . . .
A tremor racks through me as his lips brush across my soft wet ones, the ghost of a tantalizing touch.
When we finally part, my mouth tingles, and I can see him perfectly up close. I notice the shifting shades of green in his eyes, the copper flecks scattered inside—not cold, not an ounce of cold right now.
I feel his fingertips graze my temples as he brushes my hair off my forehead to look at me. His hands remain there for what feels like an instant and, at the same time, forever. I blink as I grudgingly remove my hands from his nape and bring them, trembling, to my sides, my eyes focusing on his stunning, virile face.
“I . . . this can’t happen.”
“It’s happened. It’s happening, Rachel.”
His gaze is heavy, thick-lashed as he surveys his handiwork: my lips, wet. Swollen—at least that’s how they feel. I find myself touching his shoulders, nervous. “Saint . . .”
God. I don’t even know what it is I’m asking for.
He’s the sort of guy who’d never be in any woman’s friend zone or brother zone. He’s the sort of guy you fantasize about having for a lover, and he wants me. When he ducks his head, I go up on my toes so our lips meet again. Then we’re tasting, slowly exploring, and when I want to make it go fast because my toes are curling and my body’s trembling, he slows me down with his mouth, his tongue. Perfectly in control, he’s feasting on me and doesn’t want to be rushed. My mouth has become his expedition, and I want to be explored, just like this.
He pulls away—I have to swallow back a protest then.
He stares at me. Eyes, lips, eyes, lips, prolonging the looks a little more every time. I’m in agony. Suddenly I tilt my head and kiss his neck. He groans softly, fisting my hair in his hand, tipping my head back. And there, his lips wait for mine. Our mouths fuse as if each was somehow waiting for the other for a long time. The touch, the heat, is so electric, I pull back with a shocked gasp.
Our eyes meet again. We’re playing this game, kissing, stopping. . . . I can see by the curl of his lip that he’s enjoying it. But I’m not. I’m pained with desire, panting as I fight the urge to rub up against him like a cat, tug his shirt off his chest. I want to eat him up alive, so hard and so fast, I have to fold my fingers into my palms to keep from doing just that.
