Page 40 of Surrender

“How much time do we have again?”

“Twelve hours or so,” I answer hesitantly.

“That’s enough,” she mutters. Then she wraps her hand around my neck and crashes her lips against mine.

11

Whitney

He tastes like fresh air.

The second coherent thought I muster is that I am finally kissing Jack Powell. Sixteen-year-old me would be so freaking proud.

Jack groans, loud and low in his throat, then his tongue swipes along the seam of my lips, seeking entrance. I part my lips easily, mustering the courage to take what I want because I know this opportunity won’t happen again.

He’s tender, absorbing my sudden attack like he’s been preparing for it, and he wants to slow us down and take his time. His large, warm palm cups my jaw, fingers threading through the hair at the side of my head. His thumb strokes over the apple of my cheek. Soft and delicately as if he’s afraid to mar the skin.

Rising on my knees, I pull our torsos closer, needing to feel more of him. My breasts press against his hard chest, and my hand wanders from his neck to feel him there. My fingertips dance hesitantly against him, tracing ridges and lines hidden beneath soft cotton.

His free hand wraps around me, and in a second, he’s flipped me over. My back is flat against the blanket, a pillow beneath my head, and Jack hovers over me, all without losing the connection of our mouths.

My lashes twitch against my cheeks as his tongue caresses mine. Dipping and swirling as if he can’t get enough of me. Jack kisses like he’s resurfacing from a lake, desperate for that first breath of fresh air.

A deep groan rumbles in his chest, vibrating where we’re pressed together. His rib cage expands above me. I’m surrounded by him. The arm around my back strokes soothingly up and down my spine as if he can’t quite touch me enough.

A gasp falls from my swollen lips as he moves his mouth to my jaw, kissing his way to the sensitive space beneath my ear. His lips part. Wet warmth traces along the same path as he tastes. I arch my neck against the pillow to grant access. He dips his head, leaving devastating kisses on the hollow of my throat.

I slide my fingers from his neck into his hair and grasp the strands. A warmth simmers through me, spreading with each touch of his lips against my skin.

Still holding his body above mine, half twisted on the pillows and blanket, his other hand dips beneath my sweatshirt to skate across my ribs. Long, callused fingers press inward, tracing each bone on his path upward. I suck in a sharp breath as his hand settles on my breast.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” I pant, curving eagerly into his touch.

An amused chuckle leaves his lips. “You have gorgeous tits, Whitney. Too bad all this fabric covers them.”

“Take it off.”

“Mmm.” He traces my collarbone with his tongue. “You might get cold.”

“Then you’ll just have to keep me warm,” I gasp.

“I think I’m up to the task.”

His other hand joins the one beneath my sweatshirt, the fabric moving up my stomach and over my breasts. “This his?”

It takes a moment to realize he’s talking about my clothes. If my sweatshirt belonged to Devon. “No.”

“Good. I already have enough reason to hate him. I didn’t need another.”

His mouth leaves my skin for the first time since this started in order to peel the garment over my head. He tosses it away without a glance to where it lands.

“Much better.”

“Yours too.” My fingers curl around the hem of his shirt in a desperate race to see him bare.

His eyes lock on mine. Humor and no small amount of pure arousal swirl in their gray depths. My knuckles brush against his warm skin and the hard planes of his abs as I drag upward, revealing his body to me inch by devastating inch. He tucks his chin to aid me in pulling the shirt over his head. The cotton remains tangled in my fingers as he lowers himself on top of me. Our mostly naked torsos press together.

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