Page 72 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
He rose, stood over me, and lifted me to my feet with his hands under my armpits like I was a doll. He said, “Tell me if this feels nonsexual to you.”
Then he took my face in his hands and kissed me.
TWENTY-ONE
BIANCA
This time it was me who froze in shock when our lips came together. It took him several long moments of gentle coercion with his tongue before I finally opened my mouth. When I did, it was on a soft groan that he stole when he inhaled.
He was so big, and warm, and hard everywhere, except for his mouth, which was like cotton candy. I melted into it. He slid his thumb under my ear, and I shivered. His fingers pressed into my scalp. When he sank his teeth gently into my lower lip, lightning flashed through me.
I fisted my hand into the scruff of his neck and pulled him closer.
Suck, slide, nip, repeat, feel your pulse in all the hidden places in your body. This kiss was cashmere. It was luxuriant. It was decadent, unhurried, sweetly delicious, like stretching out on
warm sand and drinking a mai tai. His scent was in my nose: pine and musk and something earthy and fresh, the way the woods smell after it rains.
He made that masculine sound deep in his throat that I found weirdly thrilling and pressed his hand into the small of my back. It brought our lower bodies together and provided me with impressive evidence that Jackson Boudreaux was anything but nonsexual.
“Oh,” I breathed.
His laugh was soft and dark. “Yes, oh. Stop talking.”
I couldn’t catch my breath, but it didn’t matter because his lips were on mine again. Little puffs of air through my nose would have to sustain me.
His hand in the small of my back became the iron band of his arm around my waist. My nipples tightened. His heartbeat crashed against my chest. The kiss turned from slow and sweet to hard and hot, first melting me and then lighting me on fire.
He tangled his hand into my hair, pulled the clip loose that held it all in place, and let it fall to the floor. He made that sexy, manly noise again when my hair spilled into his fingers. I fought the urge to press my hips against his, then softly moaned in relief when he did it for me, one big paw cupped under my bottom. Yes, yes, yes, thrummed my heart, aching for more.
He broke away, breathing heavily. My eyes drifted open. He stared down at me with a look like he might devour me.
Good thing I was in the mood to be devoured.
“We’re not done yet,” I whispered. I stood on my toes and wound my arms around his neck.
The kiss changed again. Desperation took over. Need took over. There was no more gentle exploration, no more unhurried pace. Now everything was white-hot and burning, clutching hands and greedy mouths, bodies straining to get closer. His fingers tightened in my hair. His hips rocked against mine. A new heaviness settled between my legs, and I wanted to violently rip off all his clothes and—
Someone knocked on my office door.
“Boss? Sorry to interrupt. Meat delivery finally arrived.”
It was Hoyt.
I was going to kill Hoyt. Probably with my bare hands.
“Thank you,” I called, sounding like I’d swallowed a handful of gravel. “I’ll be right out.” I glanced at Jackson and thought I might go up in a puff of smoke.
His eyes were heavy lidded, dazed and lust filled, glittering silver like the flash of a cat’s eyes in the dark.
I said, “I have to . . .”
“I know. Give me a second.” His voice was raw. He blinked slowly, combing his hand through my hair, watching the strands flow over his fingers.
Without thinking, I touched the scars on his jaw. He closed his eyes and made a soft noise like he was in pain.
“What are these scars from?”
My question broke whatever spell he’d been under. He dragged in a deep breath and reluctantly released me. With a cruel twist to his lips, he muttered, “A man-eating shark.”
