Page 91 of Rookie Recovery

Fuck, he was beautiful. Perfect. In every line and curve that rose and fell beneath my fingertips. In every muscle, tendon, vein. Every freckle and scar. Perfect.

Beautiful, lean muscles defined his chest and arms, his stomach and the V-cut of his hips. He might have been thin, gangly even, if professional athleticism hadn’t honed his body to a sharp edge at the intersection of power and strength. He was fucking perfect.

I wanted to lick every inch of him.

“Like what you see?” he asked. His tone was teasing, but his voice came out a little hoarse.

“Yeah, I do,” I murmured, my eyes still fixed on his bare chest. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

His breath stuttered as I lowered my mouth to the curve of his rounded left deltoid, the injured one. The one I’d been studying, touching, massaging, for weeks, but had never dared to kiss. His skin was velvet under my lips as I dragged them over the hard muscle, followed the slender length of his collarbone to the hollow of his throat. He smelled soft and clean, like soap and shaving cream, cheap cologne, and I breathed it greedily because it was his smell.

I pressed an open-mouthed kiss against his neck. Brushed my lips down the hard, smooth muscle of his pec. Slid my tongue out to flick over the nub of his nipple. His head tipped back, and his chest arched forward against my mouth.

A gasp escaped his lips. “Jamie.”

Fuck. Heat surged through me in a wave at the desperate, pleading note in his voice. The little stutter in his breath as my tongue lapped over his warm skin had me hard in an instant.

Nothing would ever be enough. Not with him. Kissing, touching, his mouth on my cock or mine on his would never be enough. Even sex wouldn’t be enough. I wanted him in ways I hadn’t wanted anyone before.

And it made me want him that much more.

My fingers tightened around his hips, tugging him closer. The firm muscles and bare skin of his chest pressed against me, the heat of him seeping through the cloth of my T-shirt as I lifted my head to capture his mouth in a hard, needy kiss. He opened without hesitation. Our tongues tangled, hot and desperate.

His fingers slid up my cheeks, into my hair. When he nudged his hips forward, his hard cock rubbed mine through our jeans. And the friction—fuck. I dragged in a hiss of breath through my teeth.

I wanted bigger things from him, things I’d never wanted before, but I also really, really wanted sex. From him. Now.

Like he read my thoughts, he drove his hips into me again, and the grind against my cock set every single fucking nerve on fire. Made me groan like a dying man begging for salvation. “Bowie.”

“Shirt off.” His fingers caught on the cloth over my shoulders, his voice as ragged and needy as mine. “Now.”

I tore the shirt over my head. Didn’t see where it dropped, because his mouth collided with mine again, with that same hot, desperation as before. Tongues and teeth and desire.

His lips dipped down my neck, over my chest. Warm and soft, slow yet needy at the same time. Every brush of his mouth was an inferno of sensation. A fire in my skin.

His lips lingered over a swirl of ink looped across my shoulder and halfway to my nipple. “Fuck, I love this. It’s so hot.”

His voice, holy shit, that voice. That soft British accent—telling me I was hot, no less—was going to be my undoing. I never wanted him to stop talking.

“Yeah?” My words were sandpaper in comparison, scraping out of my throat in a growl. “Tell me more.”

“The ink, the muscle, everything,” he sighed against my skin. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Oh, my God. The way he talked. Somehow, he’d made me forget everything except the hard body against mine. The soft cadence of his voice. The green of his eyes as they flicked up to meet my gaze. How my body melted into his and his lips felt like fire as they trailed down another line of ink.

More.

I leaned in closer to nibble the shell of his ear, and his answering moan against my pec went straight to my cock. Jesus, that sound. My hands dropped down his sides to grip his ass, rock him against me because I needed him to make that noise again. Needed him to gasp. Tip his head back. Just like that.

Fuck, yes.

“You like that?” I whispered against his ear.

“Yes,” he moaned, and I lifted my mouth to his. Our tongues slid together, soft at first, but quickening. Turning frantic. Needy. Desperate. He rocked his hips into me as we kissed. Again. Again. Again, until my cock ached against the unforgiving zipper of my jeans.

All of it—that delicious friction, his little moans, his warm skin and soft tongue—all of it was too much and not enough. I needed to touch him, taste him, bury myself in him. I needed him. All of him.

I lifted my right hand to trace it along the waistband of his pants. Dragging another fragile gasp from between his lips as I slid over the bones of his hip, reached the light trail of hair on the front of his firm stomach, leading me down.

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