Page 52 of The Sun and the Moon
“It doesn’t have to mean anything about our souls,” she breathes. This close I can feel the heat. I want it to consume me.
For fun.
“No strings,” I say, but I’m not thinking about the kind that mean obligations or commitment, payment or puppetry.
I’m thinking about the string tied from one soul to another.
“Just how I like it.” The words leave her throat with a growl.
All I have to do is lean in and our lips will touch. She wets hers. Now they glisten, enticing, inviting. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay,” she consents.
Her hand twines in my hair now, up to the nape of my neck, fingers stroking skin as our breath mingles in the tiny expanse of space between us.
My hand snakes around her waist, flattening my palm to herback, pressing her closer. I resist the urge to squeeze her flesh, run my hand over the generous slope of her ass, cup the curve at the bottom.
I focus on the smell of her skin, fresh air and spice and sunshine. Her nose touches mine in a gentle nudge, waiting for me to do the rest.
And so I do. Slowly, slowly.
And then all at once.
I take her lips hostage, mine fitting over the soft, supple curves of her pout. My tongue slides past that cute crooked tooth, searching. Tasting. Coffee and mint, a little salty and sweet and so warm.
A small primal noise rumbles from my throat.
Her hand cradles my head, and she closes the gap between our bodies just enough that I can feel all her ample curves against my longer, leaner lines. Her tongue touches the tip of mine, her hips press into mine, amplifying the ache that pulses between my legs.
Knock knock knock.
Our faces whip apart, but our bodies stay in tandem.
The sound is coming from the hotel door.
“Who the hell would—” she nearly spits. I love that she hasn’t let me go yet. Makes me hopeful she doesn’t want to—isn’t regretting what just happened now that we’ve been interrupted.
“Valet,” I reply. “They haven’t brought our bags yet.”
“Oh fuck.” She turns back to look at me. Her lips are a deeper shade of pink. She grins. “Let me get my cash for a tip.” Her eyes drop to my mouth. “Fuck.” But she smiles when she says it. “Coming!” She lifts herself off the bed and walks across the room to where her purse sits by the coffee machine on the dresser. Her yoga pants are riding up a little in her ass crack, adding definition to the outline.
Jesus Christ.
I sit up, crossing my legs and leaning against the end of the bed to ease the throbbing.
She opens the door to reveal the same valet attendant from when we arrived earlier. He’s got a cart with her duffel and my rolling suitcase sitting on it, as well as the bag containing Chicken’s food and water bowls, treats, and the ziplock plastic bag of dog food they packed him for the weekend.
As far as I know, Chicken is staying with Moira and Rick, not us, so that will need to be returned.
Us.We are staying in a room together, but we are not anus. We are trying to make sure her dad doesn’t get swindled, but we are not acouple. We just kissed like starving people loading up plates at a buffet, but we are nothooking up.
The valet drops the bags just inside the door, and Sydney discreetly hands him a folded-up dollar bill in an amount I can’t see before she shuts the door and turns around.
My eyes can’t get enough of this view.
And then on the dresser her phone begins to buzz with a call.
Chapter Twenty-Two
