Page 63 of Mortify

"We should get back," I say, throat tight with emotion. "Fern needs her whipped cream."

"In a minute." He's studying my face like he's memorizing it. "Just need to do something first."

"What?"

"This."

He kisses me.

Not the casual pecks we've exchanged for show.

This is different. Raw. Consuming.

His hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling in the curls as he angles my head back.

The first touch of his lips is gentle, asking permission I didn't know I was dying to give.

Then I open for him and gentleness burns away.

He crowds me against Fern's car, his body a wall of heat and protection.

One hand stays buried in my hair while the other curves around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips before delving deeper, tasting, claiming, branding me in the middle of this parking lot where anyone could see.

I should care about that.

Instead, my hands fist in his cut, holding on as he devastates me with his mouth.

He tastes like coffee and mint and something uniquely him—dark and addictive andsafe.

He kisses like he fights—with total focus and devastating precision.

Every angle change, every nip of teeth, every soothing sweep of his tongue feels calculated to take me apart.

A whimper escapes me when he tugs my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.

The sound seems to break something in him.

A growl rumbles from his chest as he presses closer, his thigh sliding between mine, pinning me completely.

It's possession and protection and promise all at once.

Mine, the kiss says.

Mine to protect.

Mine to worship.

Mine to keep.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard.

My lips feel swollen, tingling.

His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide as he stares down at me like he's seeing me for the first time.

Or maybe like he's finally letting me see him.

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