He’s walking in front of me and therefore can’t see me ogling his butt in his jeans when I answer. “Starved.”
He must hear something in my voice because he stops and turns to face me. I take one more step. We’re close enough to touch.
His gaze is a hot touch caressing my skin. “Do you still want to stay?”
“Yes.”
“We don’t have to—you don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. I would never—” He shakes his head. “I would never presume.”
He never stutters or stumbles. I suppress a smile, lifting a hand and resting it on his cheek. He still hasn’t shaved. Dark scruff contours his jaw.
“I know. That’s why I want to stay,” I say.
His hand covers mine on his cheek. He swallows, his eyes searching mine. We move at the same time, a frenzy of motion, touching, seeking, tasting.
“I want you,” he says against my lips.
I smile, remembering when I spoke those same words to him. “Bedroom,” I murmur.
“Yes.” With one hard kiss, he releases me and grabs my hand, and then we’re running.
Well, he’s running, and I’m tripping and laughing behind him, clutching at his fingers as he speeds around corners and back through the kitchen and then through a labyrinth of corridors into his bedroom.
He flicks on the light. There’s no time to examine his personal space as, without warning, his mouth covers mine, consuming me with bone-meltingly deep strokes of his tongue.
I fumble at his clothes, yanking at his shirt.
I haven’t had my chance to explore him. I want to taste him like he’s tasted me and then run my hands up and down the smooth muscles of his back, lick every inch of his sinewy body, and drive him as crazy as he makes me feel. I break the kiss to rip his shirt over his head. He tosses it aside, and then we both pull my dress up and off, and it joins his shirt somewhere on the floor. He tugs at the button of his jeans, his fingers trembling.
I cover his hands with mine. “Let me.”
Sinking to my knees, I undo the button then lower the zipper slowly and carefully over the straining bulge. His breathing is ragged, his hands fisting at his sides. I peer up at him. His pupils are blown, his lips parted.
“You can touch me,” I say.
After a second’s hesitation, his hands weave into my hair, soft and seeking. I pull his boxer briefs down, and his erection springs out. Tasting him isn’t a choice—it’s a necessity. My mouth covers him, licking, sucking, breathing in his tart scent, like soap and heat and man. He groans, long and loud, his hands tightening against my scalp. I want to be the one who shatters his unrelenting control.
“Piper.” My name on his lips is a benediction. “I can’t . . .”
Fisting the base, I suck harder. In a whirlwind of movement, he jerks out of my grasp, steps out of his clothes, and hauls me into his arms, taking us to the bed.
“I haven’t nearly spent enough time playing,” I say.
“Later.” He forces the word out as he tumbles backward onto the comforter, keeping me on top of him and shifting our weight so I straddle his hips, his erection sliding against my wet heat.
It feels so good I throw my head back and thrust against him over and over, his rigid length stroking all the right spots. His hands come up and cup my breasts, thumbing my nipples, and I almost fall apart right then. I want him inside me now. No more waiting. No more interruptions. He’s right. Playing can come later.
His hands skim over me, gripping my hips in place even as I shift to take him inside me. “Condom,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Where?” I pant.
“Side table.”
It only takes a second. I rip the package open with my teeth and slide it on him, his breathing growing more ragged with my touch. And then I’m straddling him again. I lift up and sink down on top of him.