“How many women have you kissed?” I ask against his mouth, his glorious mouth. I’m jealous of all the women out there, asking his friends about him. When he only looks at my wet, reddened, Saint-kissed lips, I edge free and start backing for the bed.
How many women are asking about Saint . . . ?
I bite my lower lip and feel the ache between my legs run upward. I wonder if some of these women have done what I shocked myself wanting to secretly do when I met him, which was to just totally rip his shirt off. He exudes all kinds of sexual pheromones, and I have this big little ache and I want to smell, touch, taste that wide, flat chest and those big square arms and that full male mouth. I bet those women tasted more than I’ve ever dared. I bet—
“Come here.”
He takes my hand in his and stops me from backing away any more. And I’m breathless. He’s staring down at me with glowing green eyes and lids that fall halfway over them. . . . They look at my hair, those eyes, and at my lips, and at our joined hands.
“Kiss who?” he finally asks. His thumb strokes across the top of my hand slowly as he reels me back toward him and brushes his lips across my forehead.
“Kiss who, where? Here?” he lightly teases me in a gruff, textured voice.
“No.” I moan and laugh lightly and bury my face in his chest. He smells clean, minty, and . . . just manly. His hand is still holding mine, his fingers intertwined with mine. He reaches his other hand out and cups my cheek in it, kissing the tip of my nose. “How about here?” He dips his head and starts kissing my neck, lightly tasting me with kisses from my collarbone to the edge of my jaw.
“No,” I breathe. My chest is rising and falling quickly, I’m trembling all over. I just want him to keep touching me, holding me, kissing me.
“How many men have kissed this?” His smile fades, his eyes burning with smoldering intensity as he rubs a silver thumb ring over my lips.
I tip my head farther back and offer him my mouth. “Two . . . and you.”
“But no one’s been here?” In one sinuous move, he dips his thumb inside. “No one’s come inside this mouth.”
“No . . .” I urge his shirt out of the waistband of his slacks. “I want you to.”
I push the fabric up his chest and he jerks it over his head with a tug. His hair ends up tousled and glorious as he discards it, giving him a bed-mussed look that makes him even more gorgeous in my eyes because he looks approachable. Powerful but human. So human I can feel his body heat. Chasing my breath as I reach out and caress the hard planes of his pectorals and chest, suck his nipple. I smooth my fingers up his biceps.
The palms of his hands are holding my face upward, to his kiss. I give up my mouth with no protest, letting him move it at will.
His kiss makes me feel like my blood is gasoline, running through my veins. And Saint’s lips are the fire, lighting me up.
I let him caress me, his tongue lightly stroking my own, and then he’s heatedly kissing my throat, the peaks of my breasts. My breasts are heaving, and I can’t believe how much I hurt between my legs.
He places a kiss right between my breasts, then teases the tip of one nipple over my top. I feel the lick arouse me. Shivering, I don’t move a muscle, so he doesn’t stop.
He makes his way back to my lips. I open my mouth immediately and wind my arms around his neck. I’m kissing him back with abandon, holding nothing back while his hands steal under my top.
Holding me close, he backs toward the bed and drops down, pulling me over. Quickly he shifts us around so that he’s on top. He props himself up on his elbows at my side and looks down at me. Beautiful. I look up at him, his lids low and his eyes dark with desire. I lift my head and twine my tongue with his, my tongue circling, pressing, tasting. He hunches over me and tries not to crush me but gets close, so deliciously close. He feels so good, and tastes like heaven. I reach out and slide my fingers along his abs, needing to touch him.
His cock was made for sucking and for fucking, his cock, and I feel its hard length with my fingers. Then his hand is easing between my legs and teasing me with his fingers, and he’s asking me, “Do you want it?”
Hips rolling to his touch, I gasp, “Yes.”
He nibbles my lips slowly, taking his time. “You smell good,” he whispers in my ear. He wants me, lust humming between us. I smell like a woman who’s ready to be taken, my perfume and shampoo and soap mingled with the scent of Saint driving me crazy.
I’m gasping for air: every breath smells of him, every part of me remembering how he feels when he’s in me. In the moment now, I slip my hands into his hair and open my legs so I can feel him right where I need him most. He lifts me against him by the ass and takes my mouth in no hurry, and I realize he’s going to take his time—he’s going to take all night, till he’s done with me. When I realize I will be sexually tortured some more, I moan in aching misery.
How many women are asking about Saint . . . ?
I bite my lower lip and feel the ache between my legs run upward. I wonder if some of these women have done what I shocked myself wanting to secretly do when I met him, which was to just totally rip his shirt off. He exudes all kinds of sexual pheromones, and I have this big little ache and I want to smell, touch, taste that wide, flat chest and those big square arms and that full male mouth. I bet those women tasted more than I’ve ever dared. I bet—
“Come here.”
He takes my hand in his and stops me from backing away any more. And I’m breathless. He’s staring down at me with glowing green eyes and lids that fall halfway over them. . . . They look at my hair, those eyes, and at my lips, and at our joined hands.
“Kiss who?” he finally asks. His thumb strokes across the top of my hand slowly as he reels me back toward him and brushes his lips across my forehead.
“Kiss who, where? Here?” he lightly teases me in a gruff, textured voice.
“No.” I moan and laugh lightly and bury my face in his chest. He smells clean, minty, and . . . just manly. His hand is still holding mine, his fingers intertwined with mine. He reaches his other hand out and cups my cheek in it, kissing the tip of my nose. “How about here?” He dips his head and starts kissing my neck, lightly tasting me with kisses from my collarbone to the edge of my jaw.
“No,” I breathe. My chest is rising and falling quickly, I’m trembling all over. I just want him to keep touching me, holding me, kissing me.
“How many men have kissed this?” His smile fades, his eyes burning with smoldering intensity as he rubs a silver thumb ring over my lips.
I tip my head farther back and offer him my mouth. “Two . . . and you.”
“But no one’s been here?” In one sinuous move, he dips his thumb inside. “No one’s come inside this mouth.”
“No . . .” I urge his shirt out of the waistband of his slacks. “I want you to.”
I push the fabric up his chest and he jerks it over his head with a tug. His hair ends up tousled and glorious as he discards it, giving him a bed-mussed look that makes him even more gorgeous in my eyes because he looks approachable. Powerful but human. So human I can feel his body heat. Chasing my breath as I reach out and caress the hard planes of his pectorals and chest, suck his nipple. I smooth my fingers up his biceps.
The palms of his hands are holding my face upward, to his kiss. I give up my mouth with no protest, letting him move it at will.
His kiss makes me feel like my blood is gasoline, running through my veins. And Saint’s lips are the fire, lighting me up.
I let him caress me, his tongue lightly stroking my own, and then he’s heatedly kissing my throat, the peaks of my breasts. My breasts are heaving, and I can’t believe how much I hurt between my legs.
He places a kiss right between my breasts, then teases the tip of one nipple over my top. I feel the lick arouse me. Shivering, I don’t move a muscle, so he doesn’t stop.
He makes his way back to my lips. I open my mouth immediately and wind my arms around his neck. I’m kissing him back with abandon, holding nothing back while his hands steal under my top.
Holding me close, he backs toward the bed and drops down, pulling me over. Quickly he shifts us around so that he’s on top. He props himself up on his elbows at my side and looks down at me. Beautiful. I look up at him, his lids low and his eyes dark with desire. I lift my head and twine my tongue with his, my tongue circling, pressing, tasting. He hunches over me and tries not to crush me but gets close, so deliciously close. He feels so good, and tastes like heaven. I reach out and slide my fingers along his abs, needing to touch him.
His cock was made for sucking and for fucking, his cock, and I feel its hard length with my fingers. Then his hand is easing between my legs and teasing me with his fingers, and he’s asking me, “Do you want it?”
Hips rolling to his touch, I gasp, “Yes.”
He nibbles my lips slowly, taking his time. “You smell good,” he whispers in my ear. He wants me, lust humming between us. I smell like a woman who’s ready to be taken, my perfume and shampoo and soap mingled with the scent of Saint driving me crazy.
I’m gasping for air: every breath smells of him, every part of me remembering how he feels when he’s in me. In the moment now, I slip my hands into his hair and open my legs so I can feel him right where I need him most. He lifts me against him by the ass and takes my mouth in no hurry, and I realize he’s going to take his time—he’s going to take all night, till he’s done with me. When I realize I will be sexually tortured some more, I moan in aching misery.
