Page 114 of The Sweetest Revenge

The kiss told me exactly how much he'd missed me. It was so intense, so all-consuming, that I lost not just the ability to breathe but the ability to think.

My hand dove into his hair, pulling his mouth harder to mine as his tongue slipped past my parted lips. He groaned, and I swallowed it before ripping my lips from his, sucking in a harsh breath of air.

"I had a fantasy that started like this," he breathed, his thumb tracing my jawline. His hand slid to my throat, not tightening, just resting there, a promise of what might come.

I kept my eyes open, watching his pupils dilate. "Tell me about this fantasy."

His mouth hovered a whisper away from mine, not touching.

"It was right here." His voice dropped lower. "This desk."

A distant door clicked shut. We both stilled, listening.

Silence.

His gaze flicked to my statistics textbook, then back to me. "But you were wearing that tight blue skirt. The one with the?—"

"I know which one," I interrupted, heat climbing my neck. The memory flashed vivid and sharp: his hands pushing that skirt up against our bedroom door, the cool surface against my back, the warmth of him against my front.

He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that made my stomach drop. His lips brushed, not my mouth, but the sensitive spot below my ear. "And in my imagination," he whispered, his breath raising goosebumps down my neck, "you weren't nearly this patient."

I tilted my chin up, offering more of my neck while my fingers curled into fists to keep from grabbing him. "Maybe," I breathed, "your imagination doesn't know how much I enjoy making you wait."

He spread my legs wider, the movement showcasing his strength without hurting me.

The library's lights cast harsh shadows across his face as he settled between my thighs, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze, and the slight sheen of sweat at his temples.

His free hand curled around my outer thigh, fingers splayed, possessive, as his lips traced a burning path down the side of my throat. Each point of contact was a separate flame.

"Tell me," I whispered, my head falling back to grant him better access, "what happens in this fantasy?"

The vibration of his groan against my collarbone sent shivers racing across my skin.

"That's the thing," he murmured. His hand trailed upward with tantalizing slowness, leaving heat in its wake as it disappeared under my skirt. The fabric rustled softly, the sound obscenely loud in the library's silence.

His fingers paused at the juncture where thigh met hip—close, so close, but not touching where I needed him.

Our gazes met, his mouth lingering over mine, our breaths mingling together. "I'm more of a show than a tell type of guy."

He continued his slow exploration.

"Your panties are soaked, baby." His voice dropped to a rough whisper and I sucked in a sharp breath as his knuckles brushed over the damp fabric, a ghost of pressure exactly where I needed it most.

I fought to keep my voice steady. "Was that part of your fantasy?"

His mouth dragged across my face, stopping at my ear. For several heartbeats, all I felt was his breath.

"In my fantasy?—"

His lips brushed against the shell of my ear, sending electricity racing over my body.

"—your pussy soaked my fingers."

His teeth captured my earlobe, tugging gently, making me gasp.

"My face." Those two words, spoken directly against my ear, sent a violent shudder through me. "My cock."

My heart thudded against my ribs, and warmth pooled between my thighs. Zaiden's fantasies were so much more vibrant than mine, but I couldn't say that I hadn't had a library fantasy once or twice with all the late nights I spent here while he was away.

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