Page 58 of Bittersweet

“Romy.” His breath is hot against mylips.

He wraps his hands around my body, pulling me close to him. I trace my fingers up under his shirt and tug it over his head, flinging it across the room. His chestis—

Wow.

His chest iswow.

I’ve seen him without a shirt on before, in the posters for his gym, and after the occasional workout. Now, up close, those muscles gleam, and I run my hands over them almost reverently. Lust fires through my veins. Come tomamma.

My hands dance over his abs, up his chestand—

Ouch!

I jerk my handback.

“Are you okay?” Marc asks, concern crossing hisfeatures.

“Yeah, I am. I just . . .” Your skin just bit me, I want to reply, but that’s ridiculous, because whose skin bites people? “Let me just . . .” I return my mouth to his, wrapping one leg around his body and pressing our pelvisestight.

“Yeah, babe. That’s what I’m talking about,” he groans, his mouth working its way over my chin, across my jaw, down mythroat.

I run my hands along his back and feel that little prick again, but this time, I’m ready for it. It must be—he must be really hairy. He must shave his back and chest, only it’s been too long in between grooming sessions, and I’ve snagged my finger on a sharpend.

I stifle a giggle. Grooming sessions. I wonder if he can reach himself or if he pays someone to shave his body forhim?

“Lemme at those boobs,” Marc groans, pulling one strap of my bra from my shoulder. His mouth works over my flesh and to my nipple, and I tense in anticipation of what’s coming next.Touch me. Make love tome.

He unhooks the clip at the back of my bra, then steps back to let it fall from my body. “Oh, yeah. That’s what Marc’s been waitingfor.”

Oh, good. Marc’s referring to himself in the third person again, this time during sex. Sweet baby Jesus, saveme.

He steps closer and, without warning, motorboats mybreasts.

His hair gel is slimy on my skin. His stubble scrapes at me. His head moves so fast, I’m surprised he’s getting any enjoyment out of this, because I sure as hell am not. It’s like an over-enthusiastic dog has buried his face in my boobs, searching for atreat.

“Wow, Marc,” I breathe, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but needing this to stop. “That just—that turns me on so much. Too much. I need you,now.”

I grab at his hips, jerking them forward so he has to move his face. Thank God he does, a wicked glint in hiseyes.

“No woman can resist the Moretti motorboat.” He grins, unbuckling his belt, and I don’t gag, so high-five tome.

God, what am Ithinking?

As Marc undresses, I count all the reasons I should stop this before we go any further. He’s not turning me on. He’s a nice guy, but that zing, that spark you should feel with someone—it’s notthere.

Marc drops hispants.

Hotdamn.

His cock is . . .wow.

Now that’s ananaconda.

I lick my lips in anticipation. Marc may lack in foreplay skills, and he may lack in height, but when it comes to things below the belt, he’s girthy, long, and ready toplay.

“You like what you see?” he asks, his chin in theair.

“Uh-huh.” I nod, enthusiastic. Sex. I’m going to have sex with a man with a beautiful body and a beautiful penis. What more could I askfor?

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