“I…” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. God, what are you doing, Blake? Words failed him, so he did what he wanted to do since the moment he saw her walk off that boat. He kissed her. At first, she didn’t respond to his touch, but then she opened her mouth, and he slipped his tongue into the warm, sweet depths.
He let his hands move to her head, and he curled his fingers into the silky strands. A light tug from him had her head tilting back. He delved deeper into her mouth and dragged his tongue over every inch of her.
Blake couldn’t get enough and found himself wanting—no, needing—to be closer to her. Poppy was so receptive to him, and the soft, pleading noises she made for him had him getting so hard he could feel his length press against his fly.
“Poppy.” He tilted her head with his hands and deepened the kiss. She moved her hands so they gripped his biceps and pulled him impossibly closer. A low, guttural groan left him. As if his hands were in control, he pulled her onto his lap. She tensed at first but melted into his body.
He broke the kiss and trailed his lips across her jaw. “God, Poppy.” The breath gushed out of him in hard pants against her cheek. She rested her forehead in the crook of his neck, and when he felt the tiniest touch of her tongue against his skin, his cock jerked in his pants. “You smell so good.” Blake moved lower and inhaled the satiny flesh at the base of her throat. Because he couldn’t help himself, he ran his tongue down and over her collarbone. “And your taste,” he moaned deeply, and even he could hear the carnal lust laced in it.
She gripped each side of his face and dragged his lips back to hers. She took his mouth in a bruising, desperate kiss, and he gave her all of him. The feel of her full breasts rubbing against his chest almost broke his self-restraint, but he didn’t want to push her.
The fact that she let him hold her was more than he could have ever asked for, but she touched him and kissed him in return, and because of that, he needed to be gentle with her.
“Blake, you make me feel… free.” She moved her mouth against his.
“Yeah, I know, Poppy.” Because you make me feel the same way. He moved his hand down her throat, over her delicate collarbones, and covered the full mounds of her breasts. The low sound that came from her had him curling his fingers into the soft flesh. He felt her nipple harden beneath his palm, and the little control he had left him in a rush.
Gripping her hips, Blake turned her so she was forced to straddle him. A gasp left her, and he swallowed it. Licking, nipping, and teasing, Blake devoured her mouth. He would never get enough. Never.
You have to take things slow and gentle.
He told himself this over and over again, but then he found himself lifting up her shirt and trailing his fingers over the bare flesh of her stomach. The raised, puckered flesh of what he knew to be her scar was beneath the digits. Something changed inside her, and her body stiffened under his touch. Poppy pulled away, her eyes large and filled with unsaid emotions.
You went too fast.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have gone so fast.” She moved off him and several feet away in the next second. Blake made a move to stand. This was his fault. His desire for her, his love for her, clouded his better judgment.
Poppy shook her head and wiped a stray tear away. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, Blake.” She wrapped her arms around her belly and looked down. “I wanted it as much as you did. I just…” She exhaled loudly. “I just can’t do this.” Without another look in his direction, she turned and disappeared into her room.
He stared at the spot she just left, ran his hand through his hair, and gripped the short strands. “Dammit.” What in the hell had he done? He quite possibly just fucked up the one thing that meant more to him than anything else in the world.Chapter 11Poppy had run away, because frankly that was what she did best. So now, hours later, she lay in her bed and watched the moonlight filter across the ceiling. Her tears had since dried, but the pain still lingered. It felt like she betrayed the memory of Jon, but logically she knew that wasn’t true.
She hated feeling it, was sick of its cold, angry touch clawing at her until she couldn’t breathe and drowned in her own hatred and disgust. Blake was right. Jon wouldn’t want her to live like this, to go day by day without a meaningful passing thought, without feeling love or giving it in return.