Page 49 of Church Girl
“I’d do the same for my mother, sister or Chelle. Can they handle themselves? Yeah, damn right they can. But that doesn’t mean I’m still not coming behind them. No one’s taking advantage of them when I’m around. Not if I can stand in the gap for them.”
“I doubt you kiss your mother or sister like that,” I mutter before I can trap the words.
Damn liquid courage.
The atmosphere in the car changes. His big body stills, and a primal thing inside me reacts in the same manner. Tension crackles in the limited space like a live wire, and though I just slipped into his jacket, the heat rising between us, within me, has me almost whipping it off. Almost, because a purely feminine instinct cautions me not to move.
And though I’ve ignored other warnings when it comes to this man, this warning I heed.
“You want to repeat that?” he murmurs, voice cool and soft as silk.
I shake my head. My mama didn’t raise no fool.
“Unhunh, lil’ mama. You’ve had all that mouth, but now you don’t know how to speak? Repeat that.”
I swallow, then lick my suddenly dry lips. His tone demands I give in to him, and I really, really wish I didn’t want to—but I do. Yet there’s a glutton for punishment that resides within me who wants to push him. To see what he’ll do.
And she wins out.
I shake my head again. Slower. More deliberate.
His eyes flash with heat—or maybe it’s the headlights of a passing car. Either way, my vagina clenches so hard around emptiness that I worry for the state of my panties and his seat. My head swims at the hot girl level of my attraction to him. It’s disconcerting, overwhelming and a little scary. But ask me if I move away. Ask me if I’m retreating,knowingit’s all shades of wrong to indulge in thisthingwith him. The answer is a guttural, resounding and somewhat embarrassed “no.”
God, my head hurts from all the flip-flopping I’ve engaged in.
“No?” He grants me one last chance to answer, and when I remain silent, he bites his lower lip, and I trap a groan at the sensual gesture. “No?” he repeats.
A big hand curves around the back of my neck, exerting enough pressure to make me lean forward with a whimper. Not of discomfort or pain but of pure desire. The feel of that hard, wide palm around my nape, and those long artist’s fingers pressed to the sides of my throat, shoots sizzling arrows of lust straight to my womb.
He tugs me closer to him...closer still, until I’m straining across the middle console. I plant my hand on the lid of it, but there’s no need. He supports me even as he controls me. Good thing I hadn’t put on the seat belt yet, because it doesn’t seem like he would’ve cared. Not as he leans forward, shoving his face within an inch of mine. I taste the woodsy, cinnamon scent of the alcohol he’d drunk in the club. Glimpse the black and light blue striations in his eyes.
My pulse thunders in my ears. So loud I almost miss his rumbled, “Repeat it.”
I’m no match for him in this war of wills. The smart thing to do would be to surrender so I can retreat to my side of the car. Yes, the smart thing. But as my father has continually accused since I left home, I’ve abandoned reason and all common sense.
Through the rapid pounding of my heart, I whisper, “Make m—”
I brace myself for the carnal onslaught of his mouth. And the blitz does come. But not in the manner I expected. Instead of crushing his lips to mine, he advances with a tender kiss, a nibble to the corner of my mouth. It catches me by surprise. Out of the blue, I’m reminded of one of my favorite Scriptures, about God not being found in a wind or an earthquake or a fire. He was found in a quiet, small voice.
That’s this kiss.
The one from last night was like one of those natural disasters—overwhelming, cataclysmic, world-shaking.
But this one... It’s softer, gentler, but in its own way, no less earth-shattering. No less profound.
There’s a part of me that yells, wanting the storm of his passion. It would be less dangerous. This slow glide of lips over lips, delicate peck to the corners of my mouth, this whispered caress over my jaw and cheek... I’m helpless to its onslaught. Susceptible to its deceptive meaning.
Nothing about Von Howard screams tender or gentle when it comes to sex. But he’s showing me differently, and I don’t know how to take it.
A whimper escapes me as he traces the seam of my lips with his tongue. I suck in a sharp breath, and he uses the opportunity to slowly penetrate me, slipping his tongue inside to tangle with mine. Cocking his head, he shoves deeper, his touch turning demanding as he sucks on me, licks the roof of my mouth, sinks his teeth into my bottom lip. Good God, if this man is this good with just his lips and tongue, how is he with his body, his...dick?
Desire pulls tight in my belly, and heat undulates through me, swirling in my aching, pulsing sex. I think my vagina just volunteered as tribute to find out the answer to that question.
Sex has always been a...complicated issue with me. I’m not afraid of it, just leery. And the experience I’ve had has never inspired a desperate need for it. I could take it or leave it, but mostly take it since I do want to have children one day.
But nothing about the lust urging me to moan and arch my neck so he can have deeper access pertains to reproduction. It’s hunger, pure and not so simple. With Von, I want it all. Want to discover that hurried, messy urgency I’ve seen in characters in books and on TV. Want him to replace...
I shake my head as if the gesture can disrupt the path my brain wanted to take.
