Page 31 of Fix Me Up

I’m so fascinated by Owen that I barely notice the way his hands have moved, planting me in place. Each hand spans a whole section of my ribs, from the tip of his pinky to the tip of his thumb. Holding me still.

At five foot ten inches and 145 pounds, I feel like a giraffe on roller skates most days. But in Owen’s arms, I’m just Daisy.

A pretty, petite flower. Protected. But not fragile.

“What’s on your mind, Daisy?” Owen asks once his color turns back to his normal hue and the cords of his throat relax.

“I was just thinking. It’s been a minute since you kissed me.”

He blinks and casts his gaze down to my breasts. “I kissed you plenty this morning.”

“On the lips.”

“Well, you said you weren’t so sure about your breath.”

I gasp in horror, as he trembles beneath me, shaking in laughter.

“That was a joke. I’m messing with you, Daisy girl.”

I don’t know whether to slap him or kiss him. I don’t have to make that choice, though, because Owen’s hands next cup my jaw and draw me down, slanting my head to the side to take my mouth with his.

His kiss is magical. Slow and tender at first. Dry, but warm and comfortable. We kiss just like that, tenderly, until he reaches around possessively. One hand bites into my hair, and the other grips my neck.

I let out a tiny moan as he traces the tip of his tongue along the seam of my mouth.

I open to accept his tongue, slicking mine against his in a heated kiss.

And I’ll say this for tongue kissing after an orgasm—it’s better than salted caramel and bourbon all day long.

I don’t know how long we stay like this and kiss. It could be five minutes or five hours.

My stomach rumbles, prompting Owen to pull away, the concern on his face touching. The microwave clock tells me it’s been less than forty-five minutes since I padded into my kitchen this morning.

“You need to eat,” Owen says, fixing me on his lap so my legs dangle off the side, while he feeds me.

First a strawberry, then a grape, then some pineapple.

“Watching you eat fruit is making me hard again.”

I scoff, then accept another bite of grapes. There’s no way he could go again. Could he?

But the way he’s staring at my mouth as I suck on a piece of pineapple, the way a quiet growl rumbles in his chest, I think maybe he’s not exaggerating.

Could I go again? Hell, yes. I may be addicted to this man. The way he made me use his body, I’m sure that my body is now sexually imprinted on his body, and only his. Emotionally, I’m even further gone.

“Well, I know many ways to address that. As your doctor,” I say with a smirk.

“How’s that?” he asks, watching my mouth.

“Well, first, I’d?—”

My words get cut off when Owen receives a notification on his phone.

“Crap,” he says. “That’s my mom.”

Reality comes crashing back down, and it’s all I can do to not pout at him.

Of course, he’d have a unique text tone for his mother, the woman who babysits for him.

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