Page 75 of Relationship Goals

“Is that what you want?” he asks, his hand splayed across my back underneath the jersey. “You want this?”

His other hand brackets my hip, pushing me down harder onto his cock. Only two sets of thin fabric separate us, and it’s too much. I want them goneimmediately.

“You are so beautiful,” he says. He bends down, his mouth seeking mine, and I laugh, pressing a finger against his lips.

“I have a condition.”

He raises an eyebrow, his perplexed expression so adorable I melt.

“No kissing,” I pronounce.

“What?”

“Morning breath.” I nod sagely.

“I don’t give a fuck what your breath is like, Abigail Hunt. I want to taste you all over.”

I laugh again, tilting my head back, but the sound cuts off on a moan as he grinds against me. His fingers reach through the wide collar of the jersey, clamping on the back of my neck. His mouth is rough against mine, savage and claiming and totally devoid of the gentleness he’s shown me so far.

Iloveit.

I respond in kind, scratching down his perfect chest, unleashing myself on him. The jersey comes over my head, and then he’s abandoned my mouth for my breasts, sucking at my nipples through the lacy black bandeau.

He’s right. I couldn’t care less about my breath right now.

I’m gripped by a frenzy of need, nothing sweet or calm about it.

“You’re so wet for me, I can feel you,” he says hoarsely, his face buried between my breasts.

I moan in response, too impatient to talk, and scrabble at the waistband of his pants.

“Let me see you,” he says, pulling away from me.

I blink, surprised at the shift.

Until his hands grip the bottom of the bra, pulling it over my head. My breasts swing free, and I bite my lip, nervous all over again.

He’s so beautiful, so perfectly honed, and I’m just me. What if he changes his mind? What if I’m not enough? What if he—

“Fuck, Abigail,” he breathes, and it’s not because he’s upset. “You are…wow.”

Rough fingertips brush against my delicate skin, and I shiver, biting my lip.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me, pausing, taking my chin in his hand and looking into my eyes.

“Just nervous.”

“Nervous?” he repeats, clearly mystified. “About this? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—”

“Oh, I definitely want to,” I say on a laugh.

“Then what?” he asks, his thumb rubbing back and forth on my jaw. I lean into it, then turn my head and kiss his hand.

“I just want you to like what you see,” I finally admit quietly.

He stares at me. “Are you joking?”

I shake my head, unable to answer, feeling foolish.

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