Page 64 of The Perfect Mistake

A statement. Not a question.

But I nod anyway.

The rain rushing down his face makes him look like a stranger. Someone I know, and yet someone entirely new. Maybe it’s another facet of the real him. The man who isn’t perfectly in control.

The man who burns inside.

He tugs open the patio door, pulling us both back inside. “You’re cold,” he mutters and wraps his arms around my waist. They slide down to my thighs, and he lifts me. Carries me across the living room and into his bedroom, the place I’ve been to only with his children.

He pushes the door shut. Locks it with his free hand, and that sound, the promise of privacy, moves through me like a warm caress.

He kisses me. Warm, steady, determined kisses, until I no longer feel the dampness of my clothes or the hair clinging to my skin.

But he can. His fingers glide over my hair, and he pulls back with a frown. “You’re wet.”

That makes me chuckle. “Yes. Someone decided to go out into the rain.”

He carries me to his large bathroom and sets me down on the marble counter. A second later he’s pushing a towel into my hands. But he’s also kissing me, his lips on mine, like he can’t stop now that he’s started. The kiss is slow, too. Deliciously slow. It’s hard to think about anything else.

The towel falls to the floor.

He makes a tutting sound. “Dry yourself, sweetheart.”

“I like being wet,” I murmur.

There’s a brief pause, and then I feel his smile against my cheek. His hands dig into my hips. “Maybe I should check,” he says.

His hand slides over my thigh, up to the zipper of my high-waisted jeans. The sound of it being tugged down echoes through the bathroom. In the next breath, I feel his fingers, brushing against the skin of my lower stomach.

His mouth is by my ear. “Talk to me.”

I wrap my hands around his neck and lift myself off the counter. My own voice is a whisper. “Pull down my jeans?”

Alec groans against my neck. His hands grip the waistband, and he tugs, wrenching the denims down to my knees. They lock me in place, and him between my legs, his hand stroking over the cotton of my panties.

His forehead rests against mine, and I’m not sure which one of us is breathing heaviest. He’s looking down at me.

At his hand on me.

His lips brush over mine, and then his fingers find the edge of my panties. He pulls them aside with wan fingers, and I gasp at the first stroke of skin on skin.

He groans. “Fuck. You are wet.”

“Told you,” I purr.

“Mm-hmm.” He looks down, at his fingers moving over my sensitive skin. “Isabel… let me taste you.”

My breaths are coming fast. I don’t know what to say, or how to respond. Yes. But I also want him to keep doing this while holding on to me. It’s not like guys going down on me did a ton in the past, and this, him holding me like this… it’s amazing.

“Sweetheart, I need to go down on you,” he says. There’s agony laced through his words. His fingers stroke, up and down, and they make it hard to think straight. My nerve endings feel exposed.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Alec doesn’t dive straight in. He doesn’t even acknowledge my answer for a long few seconds, his fingers keep moving, familiarizing with the shape of me.

I haven’t been touched in so long.

He kisses me and then mutters against my lips. “Thank God.”

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