Page 86 of The Pucking Date
And I’m not giving her the chance to run again.
I move slowly, propping myself on one elbow, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She stirs, not quite awake, and I lower my mouth to her bare shoulder, letting my lips drag across her skin. My hand grips her thigh, slowly trailing higher.
Her chest rises fast. Not asleep anymore.
“Morning,” I whisper into her skin. Heat spreads from where my hand rests on her thigh, my arousal a steady throb.
She stretches a little, her leg shifting higher over mine, her body pressing closer. But she doesn’t open her eyes yet.
“Are you always this smug in the morning?” she murmurs, words thick with sleep.
“Only when I wake up with the girl I’ve been chasin’ for months.”
That gets me a laugh, and I kiss her again—shoulder, neck, below her ear—each one slower than the last, each one meant to remind her how last night felt. I want to sink into her again, lose myself until I’m finally sated, until there’s space in my head to think about something other than her.
She shifts, enough to press closer, gasping when she feels my hard on.
One eye cracks open, lazy and amused. “You’re insatiable.”
“No, Red. Just obsessed with you.”
My hand moves beneath the sheet, gliding over the curve of her hip and between her thighs. She’s already wet for me.
“Barely touched you,” I murmur, voice gone thick.
She exhales, eyes narrowing. “You talk too much.”
Then she rolls onto her back, slow and unhurried, dragging the sheet down with her. No hesitation. No shame.
Fuck me.
Her skin catches the morning light—golden curves, lean strength, the soft swell of her stomach that makes my throat tighten.
She stretches languidly, arms overhead, spine arching slightly, and the motion does something violent to my self-control. Her nipples pebble in the cool air, her legs shifting lazily apart.
She’s breathtaking.
I brace myself above her, catching her wrists in one hand and pinning them gently overhead. My mouth finds her collarbone, then trails lower, across the curve of her breast, over the flutter of her pulse.
“Let’s see how many times I can make you beg before breakfast,” I murmur against her skin. Then lower, darker, “And for once, we’re picking up right where we left off.”
We don’t makeit to breakfast.
Or the shower. Or out of the bed, really.
By the time I’m finally spent—head buried in her neck, her nails dragging lazy patterns down my spine—my body’s wrecked, and my heart’s not far behind.
She’s beneath me, flushed and sated, that smug little smirk back on her lips.
I kiss it off her face, slow and deep, then roll to the side and drag her with me—limp, breathless, pliant.
I keep her there. Order smoothies and eggs, espresso and tea, and half the damn menu. Feed her in bed between kisses and mouthfuls, between the covers and my handsroaming. I wipe mango from her chin with my thumb. Slide it past her lips and watch her suck it clean.
She laughs. Tries to get up. I don’t let her.
The shower’s next. She makes it halfway in before I pin her to the glass, kiss her until the steam fogs the mirror, until her fingers claw my shoulders and her thighs shake around my hips.
We don’t talk much. Not in words.
