Page 70 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“Thank you,” I say.
His head lowers to rest against mine. “Happy to.” His cinnamon-spice breath brushes the side of my neck like his lips did on Saturday night, the movement sparking across my skin.
Once again, I rack my brain for any details about the night we met. I hate that my recall is so hazy. The first new lips and hands I’d experienced in years, and so much of it has been lost in a Dionysian fog. I’m sure my own performance is best left buried, butto know what his hands are capable of in that context would be something.
His head drops to my bare shoulder, and his next exhalation rustles the fine hair on the back of my neck, setting off a new wave of tingles. I arch against him in response, the movement involuntary, but undeniable. His hold on me tightens.
Desire lashes through me. This feels inevitable.
“Should I let go?” he asks.
I shake my head again.
“Ellie.” His voice is thick. “I think I should let go.”
“I’m feeling greedy.”
His laugh is a breath. There’s something empowering about that, reducing a man of his size to a breathy half laugh. “Me, too.”
Any relief I’d feel at the confirmation that we’re on the same page is overwhelmed by the new peak in arousal it gives me. We’re in sync there, too; pressed this close, I am keenly aware of a distinct hardness against my abdomen. Holy.Hell.
I consider pressing my hip against that hard heat. It would not be fair of me. Nor would it be professional. But we’ve agreed that we’re being greedy, and I’m off the clock…
I commit to the hip press. The responding throb at the point of contact is immediate.
“Ellie,”he rasps. My name is a plea.
I angle my head to look up at him, keeping my cheek firmly against his chest. His heartbeat thunders in my ear. Even at this awkward, low angle, the want in his gray eyes is clear.
His lips had been so soft that night. That I do remember. And I’d told him as much, tracing the fullness of his lower lip with the nail of my index finger before his mouth claimed mine. I hadn’teven had time to move my hand out of the way, the pressure of our lips briefly trapping my finger between them.
“Tell me to stop,” he pleads, but he’s rocked against my hip. Whether he’s conscious of the movement or not, the heat of him hardly makes his request compelling.
“You first,” I say, watching his lips. I untangle an arm from my hold around him, sliding my hand up his chest, his neck, tracing his jawline. I let the nail of my index finger glance off the cleft of his chin, then press against the fullness of his lower lip. “I want to remember this time.”
And just like that night in the bathroom, I barely have time to move my finger out of the way before his lips crush to mine.
I have zero control over myself. It’s like the contact has invoked the muscle memory of that weeks-ago drunken scramble. I’m all impulse and need as I cling to his shoulders, hauling myself against him just as fiercely as he holds me, bracing a forearm between my shoulders and his other hand around my waist as we kiss.
I hike up a leg to finally realize my vision of climbing Mount Ian, and he is right there with me, shifting his hold to my rear and supporting my weight so things like “standing” and “maintaining my balance” won’t interfere with my ascent. He’s walking, wearing me, until I’m backed onto a hard surface—the plyo boxes? Don’t know, don’t care, because what it means is that his hands are free to roam, and so are mine.
I draw on his upper lip. He lets out a low sound, and the hand at my back goes to grip my shoulder, then moves to cradle my neck, his thumb kneading my jawline. I shiver, digging my fingers into the muscles of his shoulders.
Ian breaks our kiss, nudging my head back to kiss my throat asI gasp for air. His lips trek to the low neckline of my shirt, setting fire to the skin as his hands work under my tank, fingers siding beneath the back of my bra band. He grips my shoulder blades before easing to my rib cage, holding me in place as he kisses his way to the center of my chest. I gasp.
And keep gasping.
The breath stretches on, and to my horror, my mouth opens wider. I turn my head away as I receive the largest, most inopportune yawn ever to be drawn into my body.
“No!” I cry, barely able to form the word around my still overwide mouth. I hurry to cover it with a hand, but Ian’s leaned back, still holding my sides as he laughs. My eyes water. “I’m sorry! I’m just not breathing enough? Or, I dunno. That freak-out kind of took it out of me.”
“It’s fine, Hayes,” he says, and gives me another quick peck that I lean into to turn into more. The tip of his tongue teases the corners of my mouth, and I pull him close, hands under his shirt, relishing the heat of his skin against my palms—
My jaw tightens in warning of another yawn.
I try to stifle it, but Ian laughs against me. He breaks the kiss to nuzzle against my still-quaking jaw. “It’s okay. I think your body is trying to tell you something.”
“My body is telling me many things that are more interesting than yawning,” I grumble, still fighting to keep the yawn contained. It happens anyway. Ian chuckles against me, the puffs of his exhalations grazing the sensitive skin along my throat.
