At his sexual innuendo, I tilt my head to glare at him and it’s that moment he leans forward and plants one square on my lips; that full on, every centimeter of our lips pressed together, no room for air kind of kiss. My eyes flutter closed involuntary, and the click of the camera barely registers in my subconscious as my lips part and his tongue slips into my mouth.
He lowers his picture taking arm, dropping his phone to the rug before both hands grip my waist. Then his hands snake around to my back, running them up and down my spine, his fingers kneading each vertebra and melting my insides like cheap, pliant, putty in his masculine hands.
He buries his nose in my neck, both planting kisses inside the open collar of my flannel shirt, and inhaling the smell of me at the same time. I guess he really wasn’t joking when he said he loved the way I smelled…
My hands roam his upper torso and I run them up inside, then under, the arm holes of his soft gray tee shirt, squeezing and memorizing every cord of his firm shoulders and brawny biceps. He flexes them as I run my smooth palms over his skin further into his shirt, and groans when my warm fingers graze his collarbone.
Innocently.
Sensually.
Both at the same time.
Leaning down, I lavish kisses on his temples where his sideburns and freshly shaved face meet. He tips his head like a kitten still wanting to be petted, and I oblige him by trailing my lips along his jaw and nipping his ear with my teeth.
He practically purrs his approval and returns the favor by nudging my chin and giving my jaw a few flirty licks. Not the wet sloppy licking you’re probably envisioning; no. Matthew’s tongue playfully slides along my skin like a wave on the water – smooth and leaving ripples in its wake. It’s teasing and gentle and it’s driving me mad with desire.
I didn’t think it was possible, but maybe I have a little kink in me after all… Not that what we’re doing is Fifty Shades of Gray kind of stuff, but under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t let some guy lick my neck. It’s just not my style, and if it were anyone else doing it to me I might feel weird, or gross.
But the fact that Matthew Wakefield has his glorious tongue on me…? Great Jesus, Mary and Joseph - I’ve died and gone to heaven. Raging hormones be damned.
My hands work their way from his biceps, to his forearms, to his wash board abs. He sucks in a breath as my fingers skim the waistband of his well-worn jeans, the anticipation palpable. Unfortunately, grabbing a guy’s junk isn’t exactly my style either, so my hands reach down between us, bypassing his erection and heading for his inner thighs instead. I rest them there, kneading his quads through the denim, marveling that, even at rest, his physical strength is evident.
I bet he could bench press me… bet that I’d let him… bet that I’d squeal with delight.
There is no sound in the room except for our heavy breathing; no radio, no cell phones beeping, no sounds from the traffic outside. And even if there were, I wouldn’t have registered it anyways – my brain is mush.
Apparently Matthew’s isn’t, because before I can register him lifting me up, he’s carrying me down the hallway to his bedroom and plopping me in the center of his bed.
I fall flat on my back, hair fanned out (attractively, I’m sure), knees bent, and cheeks flushed.
For a moment, he does nothing but stand next to the bed, staring down at me shamelessly as if deciding his next move; unabashed, I stare back. Mind made up, Matthew crawls on to the bed and sidles up next to me, pulling me into his body and propping his head in his hands, looking down at me before planting a kiss on my forehead.
Then another.
He reaches over, brushing the hair away from my temples, before planting a kiss there as well.
One kiss…. Two.
I reach up and capture the back of his head, pulling it down towards my mouth; our lips and tongues meet, reintroducing themselves like two long-lost friends, never having missed a beat.
My fingers stroke the back of his head, weaving through his thick, silky hair, pulling and tugging him closer. His large hands cup my neck, stroking my collar bone through my plaid flannel shirt, until his index finger finds and fiddles with the top button.
“Can we take this shirt off?” He asks, his teeth raking my lower lip. “It’s in my way.” Wordlessly I comply, facilitating the task of unbuttoning it, until Matthew abandons the project completely, leaving me to go at it alone so his hands can explore my skin – which I am one hundred thousand percent okay with.