Page 53 of Weather Girl

He lets out a rough laugh. “Honestly? No.”

“Oh, thank god. Because I really just want to skip to the part where we make out again.”

This seems to flip a switch in him. He strides forward, pinning me in the entrance of the kitchen, tilting my head upward so he can capture my mouth with his. I sink into the kiss, so eager to get my fingerprints on every inch of him that I’m not sure where to put my one good hand first. His chest, where his heart hammers against it. The back of his neck, where it’s easiest to pull myself closer. Into his hair, soft and lush and perfect.

When he parts my lips, he still tastes like cinnamon sugar.

I tug him out of his light spring jacket and drape it on the back of a chair, leading him the three steps from the kitchen to my room. Studio apartments have their advantages. A few more seconds and I’ve got him on my bed, my legs at his hips as I press my need against his, inhaling his exhales and swallowing every hungry sound he makes. He gives it all right back, trailing kisses along my jaw and down my neck, gripping my waist before his hands move up my sides, skimming my breasts. Just like in the Dugout, I’m stunned by how it can feel this good with most of our clothes still on.

And that fact makes me draw back for a moment, unable to catch my breath.

“I have to tell you something,” I say. He secures his hands at the base of my spine. “I—I’m nervous.”

He gives me a very serious look, compounded by the fact that he’s still wearing his glasses. “You should be. I haven’t done this in five years.”

When he cracks a smile, it breaks some of the tension between us, though my heart still drums a frantic beat against my ribcage. Because somehow I haven’t done this in five years turns me on even more.

There’s something undeniably hot about being the one to break his dry spell. In this moment, it feels like a privilege, and I’m honored he’s giving it to me.

“If you’re not comfortable,” he says, fingers stroking up my spine, “we can stop. We don’t have to do anything.”

“I want to.”

The nerves aren’t gone as I grab for him again—first for his glasses, which I place on the nightstand next to us—but the desire is stronger. Wilder. Still, I don’t have as much range of motion as I’d like.

“Have you ever seen anything sexier?” I ask as I slowly, dramatically remove my sling, dropping it onto the pale blue comforter with a flourish of my uninjured arm.

“How did you figure out my exact kink?”

I feel like I never stop laughing when I’m with him. It’s a little concerning, given my reluctance to jump into anything serious, but god, I want this. We’ve been on the edge of a cliff, and I might actually die if we don’t tumble off together tonight.

Gently, he tugs off my dress, his mouth exploring each new piece of me. A kiss to my navel. A bite at my hip. A stroke of his tongue in between my breasts and along the lace of my bra.

One-handed, I fumble with his belt, my hand skimming the curve of his stomach.

He recoils. “Sorry.”

“No—it’s okay,” I say, even as he’s reaching down to help me with the buckle. I want to tell him he has nothing to apologize for, but he seems ready to blaze past this, lips meeting mine again in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

If I’m the one ending his drought, I want this to be the best fucking sex he’s ever had.

My hand is too impatient as it dives inside his jeans, finding him warm and stiff and already straining against his boxer briefs. God. He reacts instantly—a sharp intake of breath. A low moan that sets my nerve endings on fire. Slowly, I rub back and forth as his head drops to my neck.

“That night on the retreat. In your room,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along my collarbone. His cock pulses in his boxers against my hand. I’m dying to see what he looks like without all this cotton and denim in the way. “I was hiding the most painful hard-on of my life. When you hugged me, I thought I was going to pass out.”

“You were such a gentleman, though.”

“On the outside, yes. You’d just fractured your elbow. No way in hell was I going to initiate anything. But my mind... was fucking filthy.”

His words send red-hot electricity up my spine. I can’t help wondering what fucking filthy things we were doing in his imagination.

“Russ,” I say, and I like the way his eyes flutter shut at that nickname. “You don’t have to close your eyes this time.”

That elicits a lovely groan from him, and I remove my hand so he can shuck off his jeans, sending up a quick thanks to the Patron Saint of Boxer Briefs.

I can’t marvel for long, though, because he’s turning his attention to my bra, tracing a finger along the black lacy straps. “This is beautiful. But unfortunately, it has to come off.” It only takes a twitch of his thumb for the front clasp to fall open. Then I’m just in matching black lace panties and my lightning bolt necklace, Russ in a gray T-shirt and boxers.

“Christ. So gorgeous.” His mouth parts as he looks me up and down. “Can you just... I want to look at you a second.”

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