Page 73 of Red King

“I’m nervous,” I tell him.

“Me, too.” He turns to face me.

The admission makes me feel a little better. He grips my waist in his big hand. I feel the heat of it through the cotton of my shirt.

He might be nervous but there is no hesitation. No holding back. He possesses me with his mouth. He brands me.

I put my arms around his neck. I’m making these desperate little noises right from the get-go. Try as I might, I can’t stop. I feel alive. Every nerve and every synapse is firing and all at once.

His kiss.

His lips.

His mouth.

Him.

I’ve never wanted another man more than I want Arctic. I cling to him with everything in me. I moan, and he eats up the sound. His tongue plundering…seeking…demanding.

I am taking and giving. I’m risking it all for this…for him, and I don’t care.

“Paisley,” Arctic moans against my mouth. Then he is lifting my shirt. He does it slowly. Giving me time to accept or reject the move. I let him. I’m lifting my arms to make it easier for him. Our eye contact is broken for a brief moment when the fabric comes between us. Then we kiss like there is no tomorrow, stumbling to the bed.

He cups one of my breasts, his thumb rubbing over my nipple, which hardens up beneath his touch. I moan and arch against him.

He pulls back a little, looking at me, really looking. We’re both breathing hard.

“You have the most amazing eyes,” he murmurs. “And I love your freckles.” He leans down and kisses a more prominent one on my shoulder.

This feels intimate, even though it’s not.

“I’ve always hated them,” I admit.

“You’re beautiful.” He threads his fingers into my hair. “All of you.”

Then he is kissing my neck. No, it’s more than kissing. I feel his teeth, his tongue, his mouth. I moan as he works his way down, sucking on a nipple through my bra. Arctic pulls back, his eyes boring into me. He is, hands-down, the most intense person I have ever met.

“Fucking beautiful,” he husks out before giving the same attention to my other breast. He must sense that I’m a little apprehensive about being completely naked because he doesn’t try to take off my bra.

Then he moves down, kissing my stomach. He undoes the clasp on my jeans. “This okay?”

“Yes.”

He pulls down the zipper, then he’s sliding my jeans down my legs, leaving my cotton underwear right where it is.

He moves back up and kisses me again. Taking his time. Savoring me, just as he promised.

I’m glad we left kissing on the table. He’s a great kisser. It puts me at ease and turns me on. I moan and then moan again much harder when his hand cups my sex. He doesn’t move, just leaves it there, his thumb pressing down on my clit. I’ve never needed friction so badly. I want to rock against him. I want to beg, but I hold back.

I have my legs splayed. In this moment, I feel zero inhibitions. I have never felt so desired.

“Please,” I finally whisper against his mouth, and his finger moves, brushing against my clit through the fabric; my hips shoot off the bed.

Then he breaks the kiss and starts moving back down, taking his time, too. He kisses my neck, my breasts, every damned freckle I have. I hate them even more right now because I know where I want him.

He looks at my panty-clad pussy for a few moments.

“This is going to make my day…my whole fucking week,” he says, then he kisses me through my cotton panties.

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