His head dips, and his fingers lace with mine.
My lips part, anticipation pulsing through me. Will he kiss me now?
When he speaks, he’s so close, the words puff against my lips. “Because I can’t handle being around you and not touching you like I want to. Like you’re mine.”
My stomach flips.
I clench his hand, his large, talented hand. A hand that can fix things, show the most soothing care . . . and deliver amazing orgasms.
I lean in and press my mouth to his.
He doesn’t hesitate or freeze. This kiss is nothing like our first. There’s no shock, no indecision. As soon as our mouths touch, his arms surround me, hauling me against him.
ChapterSeventeen
Archer
Ishrug off my coat without removing my mouth from Finley’s. Her hands slip under my thermal, tracing my stomach before tripping over my back.
Her fingers are cold, but I’m on fire everywhere, craving more of her skin against mine. Every cell in my body exalts in the feel of her in my arms, what I’ve wanted ever since the night I first touched her, first tasted the sugary sweetness of her skin.
I pull back for a second to push her coat off her shoulders. It falls to the floor, and our mouths meet again, nipping, sucking, our tongues meeting and sweeping against each other in a clash of pent-up desire.
I shove my suitcase out of the way. It crashes onto the floor with thumps and clatters.
I nudge her onto the bed, crawling over her so I can trace the lines of her face, revel in the sensation of her body beneath mine.
“Archer.” She reaches for me, pulling my hips against hers.
I don’t want to rush this. I need to hold back, relish each moment and enjoy every second I get to keep my hands on her, but the blood is rushing through my body like a freight train of desperate need.
She pulls my head down, her tongue pushing past my lips with a moan, hips tilting against mine. Her enthusiasm ignites my own, forcing it to burn brighter, hotter, more demanding. She jerks my shirt up and off and then runs her fingers over my chest, caressing the smattering of dark hair, tracing it downward with a finger.
Braced over her, my arms shake with restraint.
“Finley.”
“Hmmm.” Her eyes are cast downward, where she’s plucking at the button of my jeans.
“I need to feel you. Your skin. Everything.”
We pull her shirt over her head and then collide in a tangle of limbs, our lips seeking. She has a bra on, but I can’t bring myself to pull away long enough to snap it off. I never want to let her go.
We kiss and caress, hands roving, mouths teasing, for long moments. Then, suddenly, she pulls back. “Wait. Wait,” she says, her breath catching as I suck on the delicate skin of her neck.
“What?” I brace myself over her again.
“Do you have a condom?” She’s panting, staring up at me, lips pink and swollen.
My brain takes a minute to register the words. Condom? Condom.Shit.
“I don’t have any.” I glance around as if one might magically appear nearby. I didn’t think I’d need any, I hoped, of course, but never imagined . . .
But I have seen condoms recently.
Our eyes meet in a clash of shared memory.
“Cabin three,” she says.