Page 100 of This Could Be Us

“Are you sure?” he rasps.

“A kiss, okay?” I whisper. “We can do just a kiss, right?”

He nods, sliding his fingers into the hair at my nape and pulling me close, so close our lips brush, pull away, brush again. A dance ofshould we,will we, andGod, yes, let’s, ending with his mouth sealed over mine in a kiss that once it begins, does not hesitate. He dives in, and the desperate force of it matches my own. He said earlier that he was greedy, and the kiss reflects a deep, banked hunger that mirrors mine. Like the desire that has driven me more than once to touch myself under cold sheets and think of him has burned through him too. The kisses he trails down my throat torch my control, and my hands glide over the hard muscles of his back beneath his sweater.

He groans into our kiss. “Touch me, Sol.”

I want to so badly, and my wandering hands aren’t shy, gripping his shoulders and caressing the lean muscles at his waist. Learning his body with the tips of my fingers, I kiss the column of his throat. His grip at my waist tightens, and the tether on his self-control seems strained. He breathes heavily into the curve of my neck. His erection presses into my hip, and I know that if we don’t stop now, it will go beyond a kiss.

I want it to.

I find one of his hands and guide it to my breast. My nipple buds into his palm, a flower turning to the warmth of the sun. Watching me closely, he squeezes in rhythm with my ragged breaths. I hold my bottom lip hostage between my teeth to keep from screaming. It has beenso long since I was in the palm of a man’s hand like this—with a laser desire that takes my every response as a cue to how to pleasure me next.

“Can I see?” he asks, his hand poised at the hem of my sweater.

Inside this cocoon we’ve woven from ardor and desperation, I can’t deny him anything. I nod, closing my eyes when he peels the sweater up and unlatches the front closure of my bra. Cool air christens my nipples, drawing them into hard, tight points.

“Jesus,” he breathes, his breath fanning warmly over the curve of my breast. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

“I’m not.” I force a laugh out, ready to detail all my flaws and sags after breastfeeding three babies. “My—”

I choke on my words when his mouth closes over the tip of one breast.

The soft pressure of his mouth sucking gently on me is torture. I squeeze my thighs together, seeking some relief from the throbbing there. From the heat building in my core and spreading across every centimeter of skin and nerves. He increases the pressure, alternating bites, nibbles, sucks, licks with his mouth, while his hand rubs my other nipple, tugs and pinches and flicks. It’s an unrushed seduction, so persistent and patient and precise that the pleasure steadily climbs up my body. My back arches and my legs fall open and my head tips, mouth widening on a silent scream.

“I’m gonna come,” I gasp, incredulous because I never have from just this. It’s been a long time since a man’s touch coaxed this response from me, but I recognize the tension crawling up my legs and wrapping around my spine.

“Good,” he breathes, not relenting.

I whimper and moan and pant while he keeps at it, confining his focus to my breasts. My hips twist and I writhe, but he doesn’t let me get away. Finally I can’t take it anymore and I explode in a clap of thunder. With a crash of lightning behind my eyes, I unravel like a loose thread that he keeps tugging and tugging until it dangles.Idangle over an open canyon, waiting to be dropped, but he never does. He holds me through the trembling shock of a pleasure so intense it feels like adiscovery. I hide my face in the warm skin of his throat, my sweater accordioned between us, bra open, breasts bare and heaving into his chest.

“I’ve never…” I draw in a ragged breath, helplessly trying to calm my racing heart.

“Never what?” He strokes my hair away from my face and dusts soft kisses across my hot cheeks.

“Never come from just that,” I confess in a mortified rush.

“Really?” His eyes are riveted on my face. “Can I… never mind.”

He moves to sit up, but I grab his arm to keep him close.

“What is it?” I whisper. “What do you want?”

He hesitates for a moment before meeting my eyes directly. “Can I feel?”

“Feel?” My mind is scrambled, an orgasm omelet, with all my thoughts whisked and tossed. “Oh, you meanfeel.”

He offers a terse nod, lips and jaw tight, but he doesn’t withdraw his request. In answer, not breaking our stare, I unzip my jeans, wriggling to loosen them around my hips. I take his hand and guide it into my panties. Both of us are breathing harshly by the time his warm, blunt fingertips reach me, explore the wetness flooding my underwear. I clench my eyes shut. He said he just wanted to feel, but I drop my legs open in case he wants more because I do.

Unhesitating, he grazes my clit with his thumb and I arch, staring up at the light on the ceiling as if that one point of brightness anchors me to the world, to my body.

“Sol,” he breathes, lowering his head to my neck and kissing the dips and hollows of my collarbones. “You’re so wet.”

“I know,” I pant, involuntarily rolling my hips into his touch, into the probe of his fingers parting me. “Please do it.”

“Do what, sweetheart?” he asks, his fingers going still, poised at the entrance to my body. “What do you want?”

“You know, Judah.” A sob catches in my throat. “You know what I want.”

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