Page 94 of Bloom

Eyes slamming shut, he tilts his head back. Shakes it at the ceiling as he mutters something beneath his breath that sounds an awful lot like a curse, and my name. Scrunches his face like he’s in pain, and I don’t get it, not until I look down, planning to stare at the ground until it opens up and swallows me whole, but getting caught up on something else instead.

My mouth pops open, and God, I hate myself, but I think I gasp a little.

Oh.

“Caroline,” Hunter hisses. “Don’t do that.”

Don’t stare at the bulge in his pants—thebigbulge that hints at abigsomething beneath it. Don’t do that. Okay. Yeah.

Easier said than done.

A groan makes my stomach clench. As do heavy-lidded eyes. And another low, drawn-out murmur of my name.

“Sorry.” I finally manage to pull my gaze away. “God, I’m sorry.”

Hunter grunts. I swear, the air hikes up a couple dozen degrees as he slowly closes the distance between us. When a hand lands on my hip—mybarehip,beneaththe t-shirt—I don’t have time to fret over the embarrassing noise I make, too busy gulping about the fingers that crook beneath my chin, tilt my head upwards. “Can’t look at me like that, Caroline.”

I gulp again.

“Lookin’ like you want somethin’.”

And again.

“Do you want somethin’, honey?”

I don’t think; I just do.

I kiss him.

28

He thinks Oscar Jackson might be the dumbest man alive.

He might be a close second.

My senses come rushing backto me with a startling clarity.

It’s like I’m feeling everything in high definition. Everything is extra sensitive, extra stimulating—rough hands contrasting soft lips, the scrape of stubble against my cheeks, the solidity of his chest beneath my palms. The blood rushing in my ears is deafening, as loud as our mingled breaths, as the harmonious noises creeping up our throats, as the sloppy sounds our melded mouths make.

This kiss is nothing like our first. I thought… I can’t believe I ever thought that was what desperation felt like.Thisis desperate. This isstarved. Like it might be our last, and there’s something ominous as well as exhilarating about it.

This time, when he palms my ass rough enough to coax a whimper out of me, he doesn’t jerk away. He doesn’t stop. He kneads harder, kisses harder, mercilessly steals the breath from my lungs, and I’m more than willing to give it.

I’mgreedy.

Pressing myself as close to Hunter as physically possible, I search for a way to relieve the ache throbbing between my thighs, an ache I haven’t felt in a while, an ache I’ve forgotten how to satiate.

It terrifies me, bone-deep freaking terrifies me, how very much I want Hunter to be the one to remind me.

I feel like a different person. A more confident person who’s capable of shoving her fears into a dark corner and slamming a metaphorical door on them. The kind of person who can elicit the reactions Hunter is giving me, the noises and the touches and the hard protrusion digging into my stomach that I swearthrobswhen Hunter thrusts against me.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Caroline,” he murmurs against my lips, hoisting me up and guiding my legs around his waist. “Fuck,baby.”

I’m floating. Literally, I guess, held in Hunter’s strong, capable arms, but metaphorically too. High on the confidence Hunter is inspiring within me, on the raspy words ripping from his throat, on the eager fingertips gliding across my skin.

But some of that confidence dies when those fingers stray too far. When they drift to the hem of my borrowed shirt, when Hunter slowly starts dragging it upwards, and I tense despite trying so hard not to.

Hunter stops. His hands move to safer territory—although, I’m not sure the underside of my thighs is entirely safe. Stroking soothingly, he rasps, “Too much?”

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