Page 100 of Love Sick

“Ready,” I say. “I’m not ready.”

He dips his head, like he’s trying to see past my mask of calm. “Do I—should I apologize?”

My eyebrows pull together. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to freak out?”

“I’m—I’m not.” I reach out, then drop my hands again. “That was unexpected.”

He tilts his head, dark gaze traveling over my pajama-clad body before he takes my wrist and tugs gently. “Was it?”

I think back on the last few months, to all the fantasy kisses I’d invented for us. Staring into his shadowy eyes, spellbound, I whisper, “No.”

His hand at my wrist skates along my arm until his knuckle lands on my jaw, and he slides sparkly pleasure across it. He lifts my chin. “No, it wasn’t. And I kind of want to do it again.”

Breathless, I nod, and his soft lips are on mine again, slow and agonizing. He tastes like that cinnamon gum he favors with the barest hint of black coffee, a heady mixture that has me hunting for more.

On my toes again, I ache to be closer. A raging fire turns my blood to molten gold, hot and lavish and glittering. Our bodies find a natural rhythm, my hands in his soft hair, his splayed across my back.

I break the kiss to nip his jaw and neck, and he digs into the muscles of my back, then dips lower. The tips of his fingers sneak beneath the elastic of my pajama shorts. His skin tastes like salt and Julian, and my mouth finds his pulse, sucking while he murmurs encouragement in my ear.

A growl rumbles in his chest, and he steals my mouth again, harder, hands roaming, skirting along intimate places, but not touching.

He’s staking a claim. I sense it in the way he touches me—no push for more, but no hesitancy, either. It ransacks all my desires. He’s pillaging my body for his own. A frickin’ pirate in the open ocean, chasing the horizon.

We’re writhing. Bound together. Aching. A storm gathering electricity.

My skin is on fire.

I want him.

I need him.

I need release.

His mouth is on mine. My leg wraps around him. His hand sinks into my hair. Mine drops to the waist of his scrub pants, fingers curling around the band.

Panting, he drops his forehead to my shoulder. “I have to stop.”

No, don’t stop.

My pounding heart clangs against my ribs, and I suck in breaths trying to calm it. Is there no oxygen in this room?

His nose brushes my neck. “Unless you’re offering more.”

Ice queen.

It’s a splash of cold water that chills my throbbing insides. It shouldn’t be there, still haunting me, but it won’t stop preying on my insecurities. “I—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Not—not yet.”

A graze of his lips beneath my ear rekindles my nervous system. Tingles chase themselves over my skin.

“I’m patient,” he whispers.

I retract my fingers from his waistband.

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