Page 25 of The Blaze Between Us

His eyes darken as they travel over my face, down to where the borrowed t-shirt has slipped further off my shoulder. "Now I want to kiss every beautiful inch of your body."

The boldness of his statement makes me flush with heat. I should be scandalized, should pull back and reestablish theappropriate boundaries between us. Instead, I hear myself say, "Go for it. Consequences be damned."

"There'll be consequences for sure," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my temple, "but I can't stop myself now. You're too close, too beautiful for a man like me to hold back."

"Then don't," I tell him, feeling braver than I ever have before. "I may be younger, but I'm not made of porcelain. Don't treat me like I might break."

He squints slightly as if making a final decision, then surges forward, claiming my mouth again.

His hands move to my borrowed t-shirt, tugging it down my shoulders. His mouth follows the path of exposed skin, trailing hot kisses from my shoulder across my collarbone and down toward my breasts.

I've always been self-conscious about my body—curves too full, breasts too large by fashion magazine standards—but beneath Brock's hungry gaze and reverent touch, those insecurities evaporate. He looks at me like I'm a masterpiece, something precious and desirable.

When he tugs the shirt lower, exposing my breasts completely, I resist the urge to cover myself. His sharp intake of breath tells me everything I need to know before he even speaks.

"Perfect," he breathes, cupping their weight in his large hands. "God, you're perfect, Tasha."

Then his mouth is on me, kissing, tasting, his tongue circling one stiff nipple while his fingers tease the other. The sensation sends lightning through my body, pooling between my thighs. When he sucks one hard nipple into his mouth, applying just enough pressure with his teeth, I cry out, my back arching in response.

His hands are everywhere—squeezing, caressing, exploring curves that I've hidden under looser clothes my whole life. But he touches me with such appreciation, such hunger, that for the first time, I feel truly beautiful in my own skin.

There's a worship in his attention that I've never experienced before. Each kiss, each touch feels deliberate and meaningful. I thread my fingers through his dark hair, holding him against me, marveling at how right this feels.

But there's something I need to tell him before we go further. Something he deserves to know.

"Brock," I say, placing my hand against his cheek. "Wait."

He looks up immediately, concern replacing desire in his eyes. "Is your ankle hurting too much? Am I going too fast?"

I shake my head. "No, it's nothing like that. I just... I need to tell you something."

He arches an eyebrow, waiting patiently despite the obvious desire still evident in his expression.

I decide to say it fast, like ripping off a bandaid. "I'm a virgin. And I want you to be my first."

His eyebrows rise, genuine surprise crossing his features. For one horrible moment, I think he's going to pull away, to tell me this is a mistake after all.

Instead, he cups my face with unexpected tenderness. "Are you absolutely sure about this? About me?"

I nod without hesitation. What I don't tell him is how many nights I've lain awake, imagining his hands on me, his body over mine. How many times I've touched myself while thinking about his strong arms, his broad shoulders, the strength and control in everything he does.

"I've never been surer of anything," I tell him, and it's the truth.

"Then I'll take care of you," he promises, his voice tender but still heated with desire.

He kisses me again, deep and thorough, before trailing his mouth down my body—over the valley between my breasts, across my soft stomach, lingering at the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. His eyes meet mine, seeking final permission before he hooks his fingers into the elastic and pulls them down my legs, careful to avoid jostling my injured ankle.

I'm left in just my panties, more exposed than I've ever been in front of another person. But the way he looks at me—like he can't believe what he's seeing—makes me feel powerful rather than vulnerable.

"You are extraordinary," he murmurs, his hands running up my thighs with gentle pressure. "Every inch of you."

Then he's kissing lower, over the fabric of my panties, the heat of his mouth tangible even through the thin cotton. I squirm beneath him, gasping at sensations I've only ever imagined.

"Brock," I moan, my fingers finding their way back into his hair, gripping tightly.

"It feels good?" he asks, though he must know the answer from my reaction.

"So good," I confirm, the words catching in my throat.

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