Candles melted when you lit them.
I melted when Kline Brooks kissed me.
Into. A. Puddle. Of. Pliant. Swoony. Mush.
His mouth was my own personal brand of perfection. Every soft caress of his lips against mine only made me crave him more. I doubted I’d ever get tired of this. Him. Us.
My breathing sped up, his touch sparking every tiny nerve ending inside of me. His hands, God, whenever they were touching me, I was losing my mind.
I shuddered against him.
He felt it, smiling as he kissed me.
Thunder filled the air as the sky opened up and started to pour over the city. The wind caused drops of rain to slide into the terrace and onto us.
He didn’t break our kiss, whispering against my mouth all of the dirty things he wanted to do to me as he did. My hair was wet and his t-shirt stuck to me like a second skin, but I barely noticed, too consumed by him. My hips moved of their own accord, desperate for the hardness he was so graciously offering against me.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled. Yes, he actually growled. I always thought the growl was bullshit, a mythical unicorn put into romance novels, but the guttural noise that came from his lungs proved me wrong.
He moved us back inside the apartment, kicking the door shut with his foot. We were walking across his bedroom one second and then tangled on his bed the next, our mouths never leaving one another.
I giggled against his lips as my ass bounced on the mattress.
Kline pulled back, staring down at me as he moved the wet strands of hair plastered to my cheeks.
I shivered against him. I couldn’t help it. Having him this close, wrapped around me, completed me in some odd way. I’d never felt this before, for anyone. And it scared me to think I could have messed this up by never agreeing to that first date or meeting Ruck in person. I could have lived an entire life without getting to feel this.
His eyes turned concerned. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Nothing.” I swallowed down my emotion and distracted him with my lips. “I want you,” I whispered against his mouth.
He grinned, purposefully taking in my soaked attire. “Is that why you’re doing your best impression of a wet t-shirt contest?”
I bit my lip. “Am I being too obvious?”
His large hands caressed my breasts through wet cotton, thumbs brushing across my nipples.
“I’ve never been to a wet t-shirt contest, but is it normal to grope the contestants?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “This judge does.”
“What else does this judge do?”
He leaned forward, sucking my nipple into his mouth and licking around the sensitive peak. I felt the warmth of his tongue and the cool wetness from his t-shirt all the way down my body and between my legs.
My fingers found his hair, gripping the strands tightly as he moved to my other breast.
“I think I need to enter these contests more often,” I said, moaning.
He glanced up, shaking his head. “No one else is ever going to lay eyes on this perfect fucking body.” He held my hips and pushed his pelvis against me, spurring another moan from my lips. “No one else will get to hear your sounds or watch your lips part when you’re losing control.” He nipped at my bottom lip and then trailed his mouth across my jaw to my neck, until his breath was hot and seductive by my ear. “But, if you promise to be in my bedroom, you can do it any goddamn time you want.”
“Deal,” I whispered. “Now, less talking and more getting me naked and fucking me until I forget my name.”
“Fucking you until you forget your name?” His eyes turned heated, mouth curving into a devilish grin. “I think I can work with this.”
And believe me, he did. I had praised Mother Teresa, Jesus, Buddha, and was calling myself Oprah by the time he was finished blowing my mind.
“I’m sorry,” Georgia apologized for the twenty-ninth time as she knocked on the door to her parents’ suburban New Jersey home.
“Baby, it’s fine. I want to meet them. Didn’t I tell you I wanted to meet them?”
“Yes, you did. But I don’t think you meant this afternoon.”
I had to laugh at that. It was true, when I’d had Georgia wrapped around me in bed this morning, I hadn’t envisioned meeting her parents only five hours later. But when her mom had called on FaceTime that morning and Georgia had run away to take the call in private, I hadn’t been able to resist popping in for a hello.
“It’s my own fault. You told me not to show my face on the call,” I reminded her.
“I know. It is your fault. Maybe I’m mad at you.”
“You’re not,” I disagreed.
“Okay,” she conceded. “I’m not. Honestly, I’m just sorry that when Savannah makes demands, I can’t turn her down.”