Page 84 of The Paradise Problem

At these words, heat flashes beneath my skin, my hand curls into a fist around the strap of her dress, and I sink my teeth into the sweetness where her shoulder meets her neck. “Is that what you want?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes…” I flick my tongue over her collarbone, and she moans quietly. “What about now?”

“Right now, I really want to get to know your body,” she says, running her hands up my sides, over my chest, up my neck, where she cups my face, bringing it to hers. She kisses me, slow and lush and sweet. “I want you to learn mine, too.”

I pull back to look at her. What she said is so simple, so obvious really for two people who are careening headlong into being intimate, but it feels so rare to hear it. I bend, half groaning, half laughing, into her shoulder. But I’m distracted by the warm bare curve, her sharp inhale when I kiss her skin, and the way she pulls me closer, pressing her chest to mine. A rogue thought takes hold: What kind of bra could she possibly have on? “Are you wearing any undergarments at all?”

“Yeah,” she says, and my soul leaves my body when she pulls the dress down over one breast. It’s covered in a skin-toned silicone cup. “These.” She reaches up, carefully peeling it off, and, with a delighted laugh, slaps it to my tuxedo jacket, cackling when it adheres.

And this, right here, is where I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to laugh at Anna Green, ravage her, or marry her all over again—but this time for real.

Twenty-Five

ANNA

I’m not sure I’ve ever loved a laugh as much as I love his. Even when I’m being particularly hilarious, West’s laugh is usually quiet and reluctant—a huffed exhale, a single amused cough—but there is nothing better than when a surprised burst rips from his throat. I’d say a laugh like that comes from the belly because the sound is so round and joyful, but in West’s case I think it comes from his chest, from that secret room in his heart that he keeps so carefully locked. When I manage to blow that door wide open, I feel like a goddess.

When he drags his eyes from my bare breast, he looks down at the silicone adhesive bra cup and tries to peel it off his tux jacket.

“Wow,” I say, grinning at my little soldier. “She’s really on there.”

“How did you take this off without removing skin?” he asks, flummoxed.

“I guess now is when I tell you the truth,” I say with quiet solemnity. “You may have noticed that I sparkle in the sunlight. That my skin is like marble.” I pause. “This is the skin of a killer.”

He laughs—sadly, we’re back to just a little gust of air—before giving up and taking off the jacket. This is preferable anyway, because the shirt for this Old Hollywood tux is a smidge too tight on his shoulders and biceps. Yum. I send my hands up his arms, around his back, pulling him into my arms.

“Come here.”

West hums in my favorite way, the sound like a hungry purr, kissing my neck, moving to my other shoulder to pull that strap down, too. I shrug my arm out of it, and the satin falls heavily to my waist. He stops, staring at the other silicone cup, still holding my boob in place. I watch the battle unfold behind his eyes.

“You do it,” he says, lifting his chin. “I’m suddenly afraid of them.”

With a laugh, I carefully peel it away, and the playful trepidation in his eyes turns to fascination. My skin heats from his focus and West reaches forward, tracing a line from my throat and down, and then slides his hand to my hip and higher, cupping a breast in his palm as he bends to kiss my lips, soft and hungry, the pad of his thumb circling my nipple with perfect, tormenting focus.

Digging my hands between us, I work on his shirt from the bottom up. He angles his torso helpfully away when I reach his neck, laughing into a kiss at my struggle because too late I realize I should have started with his tie. Together, we work to loosen the knot, to get that tiny button at his neck free. Tie finally undone and with his shirt open, his chest bare and perfect, he comes against me, pulling me tight to him, his kisses different after skin hits skin, urgent and impatient. His hands bunch my dress up my thighs and he jerks my hips closer, right to the edge of the counter.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, grazing his teeth on my jaw.

“Yes,” I say mindlessly, and we laugh, but I guide his hand between my legs, my fingers shadowing his exploring touch, and wow, I’m wet. My body is obsessed with him.

He’s wild, one hand in my hair, the other between my legs, fingers all over me, easing inside me and then moving, rough in a way that makes me feel like frantic is okay but messy is better. I undo his belt and it clangs against the metal counter, echoing around the kitchen. His zipper is the loudest thing in the room when I draw it down, and then I’m sliding my hand beneath the elastic band, finally getting my hand on him, squeezing him as he groans helplessly, feeling the weight, that generous length I’ve been thinking about for days. Impatient, I shove his pants down his hips and guide him forward, replacing his fingers, stroking myself with him.

West presses his forehead to mine, rocking his hips, teasing, barely easing the head into me and back out. “Just like this, okay?” he whispers. “That’s all until we get back to the bungalow. I just need to feel you.”

“What if I want all of it now?”

His quiet laugh is a warm puff of air against my lips. “You’re trouble.”

I nod against him, watching between us as he reaches down, angling himself up against the most sensitive part of me, sliding over my clit as he rocks. Pleasure sends waves licking along my skin, makes me want to claw at his back, jerk him closer, gobble this moment down in one all-consuming bite.

His hands grip my ass, pulling me slightly off the edge of the counter, and he chokes off a groan at the way he’s just given me a nice slice of my wish and pushed partway into me. I can hear my own rhythmic panting as I breathe through accommodating the size of him.

He grits out the words: “We should stop.”

“No.”

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