Page 19

"I'm going to kiss you again," he says. "And I'm not going to stop this time."

"Good."

His mouth takes mine. Harder than Monday. More certain. His hands slide up my sides, under the flannel, thumbs tracing my ribs. My fingers find his hair, grip, pull. He groans against my lips, and the sound vibrates through my whole body.

The kiss deepens. His tongue against mine, slow, deliberate, tasting me. My hips shift in his lap, pressing down, and his hands clamp on my waist. I feel him hard beneath me, thick through the denim, and the pressure sends heat flooding between my thighs.

"Bedroom," I say against his mouth.

He stands. Takes me with him. My legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck, mouth still on his as he carries me down the short hallway. His shoulder hits the doorframe. Doesn't slow him down.

The bed. His bed. He sets me down on it, pulls back, looks at me. My curls everywhere, his flannel hanging off one shoulder, my mouth swollen. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, chest rising and falling.

His gaze drops to the flannel slipping off my shoulder, then back up to my face. Something in his expression settles. Decides.

I pull the sweater over my head.

His breath catches. My bra is black, simple, stretched across breasts that have never been described as small. His gaze drops. Stays. His jaw clenches hard enough to hear.

"Come here," I say.

He pulls the thermal over his head, and God. Broad chest, flat stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. Muscles earned from labor, not vanity. He comes down over me, one knee on the bed, mouth finding my neck. Lips, then teeth, then tongue against my pulse point. My back arches off the mattress.

His hand slides behind me, unclasps the bra, pulls it free. Both breasts bare, nipples already tight from the cold and his mouth and everything building in my bloodstream. He cups one, thumb dragging across the nipple, and I moan.

"These." His voice is wrecked. "Fuck, Poppy."

His mouth closes over my nipple. Sucks, then bites gently, tongue flicking across the peak while his hand works the other. The sensation shoots straight to my clit, white-hot. My fingers dig into his shoulders. He switches, giving the other breast the same attention, pulling the nipple between his teeth until my hips buck against him.

"Jeans off," he mutters against my skin.

My hands are on my zipper before he finishes the sentence. He pulls them down, taking my underwear with them. No pause, no hesitation. Then he's kneeling between my legs, looking down at me completely bare on his bed with the flannel still pooled around my arms.

"Leave it on," he says, about the flannel.

"Possessive much?"

"You have no idea."

His hands spread my thighs. Wide. His thumbs press into the crease where thigh meets hip, holding me open. Then his head drops between my legs, and his tongue drags a slow, flat stroke up my pussy.

My entire body seizes.

He licks me like he's tasting something he plans to memorize. Long, deliberate strokes, base to clit, lingering at the top, circling, pressing. His tongue finds my clit and stays there. Slow circles, steady pressure, reading every twitch and arch of my body to find the rhythm that unravels me.

Two fingers push inside me. Thick, calloused, curling forward. My back comes off the bed. His free arm presses across my hips, pinning me down, holding me still while his mouth works my clit and his fingers stroke that spot that makes my vision go white.

"Oh God. Oh fuck, Deck, right there."

He doesn't change a thing. Same pressure, same rhythm, same devastating patience. The orgasm builds from my toes, curls through my thighs, coils tight in my belly. His fingers curl harder. His tongue flattens against my clit. My hand finds his hair, grips, pulls.

"I'm gonna come."

He growls against me, the vibration pushing me over, and I shatter. Gasping, shaking, thighs clamping around his head. He doesn't stop. Licks me through it, slower now, easing me down while the aftershocks pulse through my body.

Before I've fully come back, he's standing. Unbuckling his belt. Jeans down. He's thick, hard, cock straining. A condom from the nightstand drawer. He rolls it on with one hand, other hand gripping my ankle, pulling me to the edge of the bed.

"Turn over."