Page 68 of Hypnotized By Love

I started poking his chest with my right index finger. It was childish, but I was so mad I didn’t know how else to express it. “You can’t be quiet when you’re supposed to be doing a hypnosis session, you can’t be quiet when I’m trying to read. Why won’t you just be quiet?”

“Make me,” he challenged in that low, intoxicating voice of his.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. Anything to get him to shut up.

It was the most glorious feeling in the entire world, his warm and firm lips pressed against mine, being engulfed in that delicious cologne of his, having his body form a long, hard line against me.

Immediately, I realized my mistake and pulled away. “I’m sorry,” I said, panting. “I shouldn’t have—”

But before I could finish my sentence, he reached out, grabbed the back of my neck with his right hand, and pulled me into the hottest kiss that I had ever been a part of.

His mouth was devouring, demanding, bruising, and I couldn’t keep up. He just kept moving his lips against mine, slanting this way and that. Like he was starving for me and had been wanting to kiss me just as desperately as I had wanted to kiss him. There were so many different things happening at once that all I could do was cling to him so that he could keep me anchored.

Mason Beckett kissing me was more incredible than anything I could have imagined. Greater than any teenage fantasy I’d ever conjured up. He knew what he was doing, and he did it better than any other man I’d ever dated.

As if knowing me so well meant he understood instinctively exactly what to do to drive me wild.

He reached up and tugged the scrunchie out and started running his fingers through my hair. If any part of me had wanted to protest his kiss, this one act would have ensured my eternal silence. It felt unbelievable.

I moaned against his mouth, and he made a noise in response that would have flattened me to the ground had he not been holding me upright.

With one hand behind my head, cradling my face to his, and the other at my waist, he started backing me up until I hit some bookshelves. I both heard and felt the jolt but did not care.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t talk,” I told him. I didn’t want to think—I only wanted to feel. I pulled him back into the kiss because I wanted it more than anything else.

Each movement of his lips sent a deep pulse that throbbed throughout my entire body. My stomach turned into tight coils as fire thrummed inside my veins, reaching my nerve endings and exploding into continual fireworks. Pleasure pulsed from the base of my spine and made me demand more.

Which he was willing to give.

I never would have guessed that this kind of electric, overwhelming passion would have existed between us. It was almost too much. I didn’t know how to contain what I was feeling, as if I were going to shatter from sensations.

There was no restraint in him, no holding back. There was just hunger and want and need and an ever-growing flame that threatened to consume us both. I wouldn’t have cared if it burned down the whole house around us, just so long as he kept kissing me. Because his kisses smoldered and blazed, and if any part of me had wanted to stop, he quickly incinerated those thoughts.

His taut body was pressed fully against mine, trapping me against the built-in shelves. I loved his hard ridges and planes pushing against me, the way that I could feel his thundering heartbeat in my own chest.

His kisses were deep and greedy, like he was afraid I’d never let him do it again, and that was a valid fear. Some still-rational part of my brain knew that I shouldn’t be letting it happen now, that it definitely couldn’t ever happen again, but I was going to enjoy every single second of what was going on in this moment.

He leaned his head back, and my lips tingled, feeling bruised in the most delicious way possible, as I waited for him to kiss me again. It wasn’t happening. It took me a second to open my eyes because I was still drowning in the sensations he’d created. I felt hazy and unfocused. “What?”

“Do you still hate me?” he asked, his voice teasing and infuriating and sexy all at the same time.

“Yes.” I breathed the word out, not sure how much I believed it. “I hate you.”

Mason reached out with his left hand and grabbed my wrists and put both of my hands above my head. His large hand clasped my wrists easily, keeping me pinned, and I didn’t struggle. I didn’t want to.

“I bet you’ll hate me doing this,” he said and bent down to start running his mouth along the side of my neck.

My knees buckled, and the only thing keeping me in place was the hand holding my wrists and his other one at the small of my back, pressing me against him. “Yes, I hate that,” I whispered weakly.

“You say that with so much conviction.” His mouth was hot against my throat as he teased me, and I let out a whimper that made him smile against my skin.

I’d imagined kissing him a million different times and a million different ways. But how could my teenage self ever have known that he would make me feel like I was burning from the inside out, as if I were going to combust and turn into a pile of ash on the floor? And I could feel it from him, too, how much he wanted me, how ravenous and searing his mouth was, how he had to get closer to me.

His mouth moved up to my jawline. “Do you hate this?”

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