Page 84 of Get Me to the Starting Line

“Leah.” Can she hear it? The longing, the want. The need. I need her. Desperately.

“Julien, I—” She stops herself from saying whatever she’d wanted to say, eyes releasing me. Hypocrite.

“Tell me,” I urge.

Her hand moves from my neck down to the collar of my shirt, her fingers dancing along the fabric as they skim my skin. I’m burning.

She closes her eyes. “I’m scared.”

That’s not what I was expecting. “I won’t hurt you,” I promise, upset she would even think I could.

Her eyes flash open, her expression unsure. “I think you might.”

“I won’t hurt you,” I say again, urging her to understand. To prove my point, I trace her jawline as gently as I can. The featherlight touch sends shivers down my spine.

She shakes her head. “My heart,” she says, her eyes darting to my mouth and then back up.

“I won’t hurt you.” How does she not see that I can’t hurt her?

The pause is so long it’s torture. My fingers rest on her neck, right under her jaw, my thumb moving of its own accord to trace the underside of her lip. She’s so close, and I finally buckle under the weight of my need. My restraint snaps.

“Leah, I ... I have to have you, please—”

She surges forward, closing the small gap between us, her mouth urgent and insistent on mine. My hand flexes, moving to grip the side of her neck to bring her closer.

I’ve never had to beg a woman before, but I’d do it again and again forthiswoman. She’s worried about her heart, but it’s mine she holds in her hands.

God, her mouth is warm and soft as I stroke her tongue with mine, deepening the kiss. It’s so good—so good, but not enough. I let myself touch her, exploring her body before grabbing her by the arms and hoisting her onto my lap.

She’s careful not to put her weight on me. But I don’t want her to be careful. I want her driven so mad she forgets I’m hurt, forgets to think. Forgets everything but how this feels between us.

My hands slide down her back, pulling at the fabric of my jersey and for the first time, I’m irritated she’s wearing the damn thing. I finally get my hands under the layers, my fingers digging into the flesh on her hips, urging her down. I want her to feel me. I want to feel her, even though there are still too many clothes between us. She tries to keep herself up, so I jerk my hips, bringing them up to meet her. I don’t even feel the pain.

When her heat meets my length, I have to get rid of this jersey, grabbing and tugging at it until she helps me take it off, the movement bringing her body flush against mine. Her tight tank top and those intoxicating soft leggings she wears are the last pieces of clothing keeping me from seeing all of her.

I want to rip them off. But I also want to savour every moment of this. I want it slow, I want it hard and fast. My mind wars over what I should do.

She yanks at my shirt, and I reluctantly let her go so I can pull my own jersey over my head. My skin burns where her gaze touches me for the first time, her fingers splaying over the planes of my pecs, tracing the whorls of my tattoos.

I watch in fascination as her cream hand moves on my light brown skin, the contrast wickedly seductive.

There’s only so much torture I can take before I grab her wrists, pulling her arms over her head, twisting to lay her down on the couch underneath me. She blinks, lust and care mingling on her face.

“So beautiful,” I mutter, hovering over her.

I have to hide my wince as I manoeuvre us so our bodies line up, her hips rocking against me, seeking relief from the ache she mustfeel. If it’s even half as much as I’m aching for her, I can’t let her bear it any longer.

Keeping her wrists in one hand and bracing all my weight on my good leg, I trail my other hand down, caressing her breasts over her shirt.

She’s not wearing a bra so her nipples peak in invitation. My mouth waters, and I have to lean in to kiss her there. Even with the pesky barrier of clothes, she moans, arching into me. She’s so fucking responsive.

“Julien, please,” she insists as my hand plays with the band of her leggings. Hearing her beg makes something rear up inside me. She’ll never have to beg for long ... unless I want her to.

I slip my hand under the band of her leggings, tracing the crease of her hip before my fingers hover, lightly touching, exploring, finding—ah, that spot.

She jerks her hips, telling me with her body what she wants. But I want to explore a little more. My fingers move away and the scowl I knew would appear on her face greets me. I can’t help my answering smile, which turns into a groan when my fingers find her slit, already wet.

“Mon rêve,” I mutter, shuddering as I sink my middle finger slowly inside, curling it a fraction before sliding it back out.

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