Page 58 of Book Boyfriends
“I know.” Clicking his tongue, he shuffles his feet, the shopping bag in his hand rustling. “You can be around it, but you can’t have it. You also can’t be kissed by someone who has just had it. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“And you want to kiss me.” My simple declaration is breathless.
“So much.” He steps close, a charge ignites in the narrowing space between us. “And I think you want to kiss me, too.”
“You do?” The question is less taunt and more panted submission to his accusation.
The heat that cascades within me reiterates how very right he is. I want Davis to kiss me, but not as much as I want to kiss him. To run my fingers through his raven hair and muss it up as I revel in the taste of him.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” Dropping the shopping bag to the sidewalk, he prowls closer, my back meeting the gate, its metal cool against my heated body.
“You’re not wrong,” I breathe.
His hands come to either side of my body, caging me in. The furnace of his form licks against my skin, scorching every inch. “Tell me what you want.” He nuzzles his nose along my jawline. “I’m yours to command.”
I place my palm on his chest. “Did you just quote me to me?”
“Yep. God, you smell good.” He swipes his nose down my neck and inhales deeply. “It’s a good line.”
It is a good line. It’s the line Lord James says to Lady Cecily just after she murmurs, “You declare me a goddess, then get on your knees and worship me, my dear acolyte.” But that’s Lord James’s line meant for another woman.
“Davis—” I cup his face, guiding his stare to meet mine. “I may write fictional men, but I don’t want lines. Especially those meant for someone else. I don’t want you to say to me what you think I want to hear, just what you mean.”
“I do mean it.” He raises his hand, cradling my cheek. “We both know you’re better at words than me. I’m just borrowing them to express how I feel. I have thought about nothing but kissing you, about making you smile, since we met. Please don’t doubt what I want… And what I want is to kissyou.”
The way every inch of me melts into his words and his touch washes away lingering doubt. Every red light is green. I will pass Go. I will collect this man’s kisses.
“You have the right words,” I whisper, my pulse roaring. “Kiss me, please.”
His mouth is on mine before I finish my request. It’s soft at first. Each press tests and plays to find the right rhythm. Though the fire that crackles inside me telegraphs that everything he does is just right. With gentle nibbles, he coaxes me open, swiping his tongue over mine, the sweetness of our blended tastes is almost too decadent.
“Davis,” I moan, his mouth dragging down my neck, sucking on the sensitive flesh along my throat.
“Mm hmm.” His fingers knead the soft flesh of my waist. “You like that?”
“Yes.” I rub myself against his growing erection, the friction zings promised pleasure through me.
“Fuck,” he groans.
“You like that?” Rubbing myself against him, I thread my fingers into his hair and tug, just a bit.
“Yes,” he almost growls, lifting me into his arms.
My legs wrap around his waist, and he presses me tight against the gate. The coil at my center winds tighter with the move of his hips against me. His hands glide up my thighs, pushing my skirt up, coming into contact with my….
“Spanx…” Wincing, I bury my face in his neck. “I didn’t plan on this. On you touching… Oh god.”
Please lord, do your girl a solid and send a sinkhole right now!Shapewear may keep things tight and prevent the chaffing that sometimes comes with my thicker thighs, but it is a mood killer. When I’m intimate, I nix them. I’ll excuse myself to the bathroom to remove them and hide them in my purse, or just not wear a dress if I suspect sexy things will happen. I never get caught up like this.
“I told you Christmas was my favorite holiday, remember?” He traces the barrier between the shorts and my skin. “You know why?”
“Cause Santa Claus doesn’t wear Spanx?” I groan.
He shakes his head, his eyes reminiscent of a smoldering wildfire. “Because I like unwrapping gifts. The anticipation with each rip of the barrier between me and my present.” He slides his finger beneath the restricting shorts, caressing the sensitive skin.
“Oh, god,” I squeak.
“Do you want to be unwrapped?” He grinds against me.
