Page 42 of Blindsided
This is certainly no longer a gentle Canadian cowboy kiss. This is the kiss of a true, unbridled, untamed, unbroken bronco of a Scotsman, and I had no idea it was everything I was missing in life!
His other hand moves to pop the strap behind my neck open, and the top of my dress spills down, revealing my very sizeable breasts, which are now practically pouring out of my bra.Jesus, did my breasts grow? Do breasts get bigger when you’re aroused?
He breaks our kiss, and I gasp for breath as his face lowers to my cleavage to devour me, pressing warm open-mouthed kisses to my flesh. I rub my cheek against the top of his head, holding on for dear life as his teeth bite the edge of my bra and yank it down with one firm tug. My breast tumbles out on one side, and I can’t help but cry out with excitement because the flurry of arousal coursing through my veins is overpowering all my senses.
“Fucking stunning, just as I imagined,” he growls, and without warning, he yanks the other one free.
I glance down and thank God for underwire because evenIthink my breasts look nice like this. Having double Es means you need support, so the scrunched down bra holding them up like this actually makes my breasts my new favourite wobbly bits.
Mac palms them both roughly as he wraps his lips around one of my nipples and sucks. Hard. The pressure causes a burning sensation in my vaginal region, and my legs nearly buckle on the spot.
God, Freya. Vaginal region? If you said that out loud, Mac wouldn’t be able to stop laughing long enough to take your maiden tag.
He presses his teeth onto my other nipple, and I’m suddenly feeling very cheated by this entire exchange. When his lips move up to find mine, I press my hands flat on his chest and push him away. My fingers hurriedly reach out for his shirt and fumble with the buttons, but they’re trembling so much I can’t get his stupid shirt off. With a tiny growl of frustration, I grab the opening at the top and rip his shirt down the front, hearing the soft patter of plastic buttons hitting the hardwood floor. I glance up, and he’s looking at me like I just scored a goal for the World Cup.
“I know a good seamstress,” I croak, and my hands reach out and claw at Mac’s very large, very sculpted chest.
I’ve fitted Mac for clothes before, so I know how beautiful his body is. But being able to drag my fingertips down his flesh, knowing that he’s all mine for the night is a heady, overpowering feeling.
I push him backwards to my bed, and he drops down with ease, his eyes dark with arousal as I work towards shimmying out of my dress. Too many clothes. Too much pressure. We just need to do this so I can get a handle on the sweltering yearning coursing through me at rapid speed. It’s so strong I feel like my entire body could take flight at any moment.
When I finally ditch the dress and move to take off my bra, Mac stops me. “Don’t be taking my job, lass.” He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra with deft ease.
When it drops to the floor, I realise belatedly that I’m standing in front of professional footballer Maclay Logan in nothing but a pair of tiny lace knickers. I know he’s my best friend, but he’s experienced. He’s probably seen hundreds of gorgeous model types naked. And not plus-size models, either. Tiny, rail thin models that have enormous thigh gaps and visible ribs. How did I think I was going to be able to shag him without him seeing me naked?
He’s going to notice that my tummy isn’t flat. Not even close. It’s soft and has a little pouch that jiggles when I move. He’s seeing my Spanx-free belly! And my breasts without underwire aren’t the perky porn star tits that I trick myself into thinking I have when I’m home alone. My breasts sag and droop and lay against my ribs. And don’t even get me started on my thighs. The dimples there are not inherited through genetics. They are earned from a lifetime of wine gums, takeaway, and questionable life choices.
God, I’m such a fool!
I quickly reach over and click off the nightstand lamp, returning to Mac and hoping he didn’t see the sheer panic on my face. I grab his cheeks and lean down to kiss him, but he pulls away.
“What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I croak and try to kiss him again.
He grabs my wrists to stop me. “Why did you shut the damn light off?”
“More…romantic,” I murmur and free my hands to begin fumbling with the belt on his trousers.
“Darkness is not romantic,” Mac retorts, removing my hands from his groin. “Not seeing your body is the exact opposite of romantic.”
I stand up and pinch the bridge of my nose, grateful that Mac can’t see the pained look I know is on my face. “Trust me, it is better this way.”
Mac rises to stand in front of me, his tall form like a giant shadow in the darkness, making me feel small and silly. “Trust me, it’s not,” he states through clenched teeth.
He swaps places with me and reaches over to click the light back on. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see his reaction because I’m certain I can’t bear it.
“Freya, look at me,” he says seriously, his voice gruff and more Scottish than I’ve ever heard before.
My eyes flutter open.
“Your body iseverythingI fucking want.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Your curves.” Kiss to my shoulder. “Your dimples.” Kiss to my neck. “Your softness.” Kiss to my breasts, and my belly, and my…oh my fucking God, he’s on his knees.
“Your heat,” he murmurs against my legs before hooking his fingers into the waistband of my knickers.
He drags them down slowly, and I’m suddenly hugely grateful that I splurged on a full Brazilian wax yesterday. He presses me down onto the bed and slowly spreads my legs and hitches them up onto his shoulders.
Good God, he’s really getting in there!
