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Now, he was strong and assured, confident in himself without being arrogant as he stepped into me, his torso clashing against mine as he reached up, held my cheeks in place and kissed me.
Actually. Fucking. Kissed. Me.
His head slanted just at the last second so that he could join our lips, bring them together so that we could taste one another again in the puddle of sunlight around us. And somehow, though it made no sense, he tasted better. Richer. More intense.
He tasted so good that I couldn’t pull back, pull out of his hold. I had no choice but to sink into this kiss like he sank into me, his muscles aligning themselves with my torso, his hardness brushing against mine, but merging too.
His dick was there, a solid presence on my abs, and my butt clenched with remembered need. The desire to have him back inside me was so overwhelming that I groaned as I reached for him, no longer content to be passive, to have him kiss me.
I needed to experience all of this, all of him, right now.
My hands went to his hair, those thick, dark flaxen locks that felt superb against my fingers, and I tugged at him, dragging him where I needed him. How I needed him.
He complied, showing that same contrasting push and pull of last night—eager to act, eager to lead, but also eager to concede. It was delicious, delightful. If he’d been more aggressive, I might have shoved him away, but he was too earnest in his passion to reject.
And he tasted divine.
Like spearmint and coconut water of all things.
I savored him like I would a fine wine, supping from him rather than chugging it back like I would a shot of tequila, because that was who he was.
A Chilean Médoc.
A sweet, sweet Auckland Merlot.
His hands moved to my shoulders, and he kneaded me there before slipping down, grabbing my ass and holding me “tightly. His cock was so big and so perfect against me, and all I could think of was last night and my need for him to pin me to the bloody glass and do as he had back in VICE—fuck me.
For the first time, my liberation in the dark rooms felt sordid.
This was freedom.
He made the tiniest sound in his throat before he pushed me into the window. The second my back collided with the hot glass, he was there, a harder, more pressurized presence. I felt like I was being branded, felt as if he was hotter even than the window, and I was being roasted on both sides.
I tugged at his hair, unable to stop myself from drowning in him as I thrust my tongue along his. The flavor of him was like champagne, utterly effervescent, so that I felt as if I was fucking flying with the sun on my back, and the wind in my goddamn hair.
This was a kiss they wrote about in books.
This was a connection they tried to replicate in movies—a foot-popping kiss.
And it was with a one-night stand. An employee. Hell, not even that. An intern.