Page 153 of Ice Darling
How cocky I was to think that nothing could top that feeling.
The moment Renthrow’s mouth descends on mine, the world tilts, and I sense a shift.
My Harley’s been usurped.
Renthrow keeps my arm prisoner behind my back as he kisses me, maintaining control with the firm, measured pressure of his hand, yet I feel utterly free.
My eyes fall closed. Everything behind my eyelids is black, but I can picture him clearly. The thick brown hair, the chiseled face, the ridiculously broad shoulders.
His mouth is possessive and impatient. The scrape of his five-o’clock shadow against my skin is intoxicating. We’re both overeager, and the pacing is off by a touch, making the kissmessier than it looks in those perfectly filmed Hollywood movies.
But real-life first kisses aren’t always movie-perfect. And we both slow down a bit, getting to know each other.
Whoa. He tastesdelicious.
With one of my senses gone, the others rise to the occasion.
I smell the freshly overturned dirt from the garden and the warm, masculine scent on his skin.
I hear the whistle of the wind in the trees, the croak of cicadas in song, the almost imperceptible groan that seeps out of Renthrow as I raise my free hand to his neck and pull him into me. Our lips move together, and we find our own rhythm.
My brain melts, overcome by the many sensations that ramp up beyond anything that it’s ever been called on to process. Overloaded, it reverts to the default caveman settings.
Pleasure means good. Pleasure meansmore.
But does pleasure have to mean getting a crick in my neck?
The longer we kiss, the more my neck aches.
I try to ignore it.
It feels amazing to be in Renthrow’s arms. I can taste his neediness, hiswanting. And I know, with every sweep of his mouth, that my impulsive little kiss was nothing but a cat mewing at a lion.
I’ve unlocked a dam of pent-up restraint. He’s been longing for me. Way more than I ever thought.
And the evidence of that is pouring out on me tonight.
I welcome the torrent, opening my mouth a little to receive even more of what he has to give. He rewards me by tilting his head to change the angle of the kiss, allowing me a taste of his tongue.
That—and the angle change—helps with the neck crick.
The wind picks up, tossing my ponytail against my shoulder. I get a crick in a different part of my neck this time.
What is wrong with me?
My heart wants to keep kissing, but my neck starts throbbing and not in the delicious, toe-curling, “I want to lick Renthrow like a spoon” way.
He senses the shift in me because he eases away just enough that our lips are still touching.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head and bracket my hands against his face to pull his mouth down for more kissing.
“Cordelia,” he says in a way that reminds me of when he scolded Gordie about eating her vegetables earlier.
“My neck,” I stammer, feeling a little stupid.
He laughs softly and starts to step away.
