Page 55 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

It's slow. Deep. Devastating.

I kiss him back, just as fiercely, just as desperately. I can taste the desire, the hunger, the want.

His lips are warm and soft and just the right kind of demanding. The pressure is firm, but unhurried, like he’s savoring me, like he’s wanted this for a long time.

I melt into him, parting my lips, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, I shiver from the inside out.

My skin is on fire. Every inch of me lights up, nerve endings singing, blood rushing to the surface.

The kiss rocks me everywhere. In my knees, in my spine, in the clench of my thighs.

His fingers thread through my hair, his touch both grounding and electric. And when he deepens the kiss, tilting my chin, I let him take whatever he wants.

Because I want it, too.

It’s not frantic. It’s controlled. It’s a claiming.

Somewhere between our first fight and this impossible truce, something real slipped in.

And this kiss?

It doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It feels inevitable.

His hands slide down my sides, slow and sure, igniting a trail of heat that makes my breath hitch.

Every inch he touches is set ablaze, a flush of awareness racing across my skin.

My body arches instinctively toward his, craving more, desperate to close the sliver of air between us that’s suddenly unbearable through the thin fabric of my sweatshirt.

He tugs it up gently, giving me the chance to stop him.

I don’t.

When the sweatshirt clears my head, his gaze darkens.

His fingers trace my neck, then dip lower, brushing my bare skin.

Every nerve is a live wire.

His touch is reverent, but there’s tension in him, as if he’s barely keeping himself in check.

His voice is rough against my ear. “I’ve thought about this. Dreamed. Fantasized about what it would be like to touch you without limits.”

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering. “And?”

He meets my eyes, his thumb brushing just beneath the curve of my breast. “You’re even more dangerous than I imagined.”

I let out a shaky laugh, half nerves, half need. “So, stop.”

“You don’t want me to.”

I don’t.

My hands find the hem of his crewneck. I tug it upward, and he helps me, muscles flexing as the fabric clears his body.

His chest is all sculpted planes and taut heat, and when I run my hands down the ridges of his stomach, he hisses through his teeth.

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