Page 72 of Employing Patience

“Since you’re so sure you can read my mind, you tell me.”

“You don’t want to know the answer.”

“I think you’re the one of us living in denial.”

That actually makes my head fall back on a laugh. I’m living in denial? I’m not the one of us running away from this thing at every opportunity I get. Art might be used to being pursued by men, but I’m not used to being the one doing the pursuing. The least he could do is take it easy on me.

He drops the act, exasperation melting from his face before my eyes. “What do you want?”

I pout at him. I’m not cute enough to pull it off properly, but at least it softens him. A little. Okay, maybe that’s only my imagination, but whatever it takes to get through this next part, I’ll lean into hard.

My steps close the distance between us as I reach for my collar and pull it to the side. “They’re fading.”

“Your brain cells?”

“My sexy marks.”

The way his eyes run along my neck makes me think he agrees. “I can still see them.”

He’s trying to keep his voice level, but I sense a hitch. A weakness.

It pushes me to slide into the space next to him, the seat too small for there to be any room between us. “I need your help.”

“My help, huh? I’m sure I’m not the only man capable of giving you a hickey.”

“No, but you are the only man capable of giving me a hickey from you.”

“Ah, so we’re stating the obvious? Like how you don’t actually need a hickey from me.”

He hasn’t moved away though. In fact, I swear he’s inched closer, just a little. With a deep breath and every inch of courage I can manage, I throw my leg over his thighs and straddle him.

Art blinks at me in shock, even as his hands close around my hips. I want to swoon at the touch, the possessive hold, but I also don’t want to draw attention to it and have him back off.

“I do though,” I tell him, hooking my index finger into the gap between the top two buttons of his shirt. His chest hair is rough, and he smells like candy, and those goddamn steady, dark-rimmed, disarming eyes are making me forget how to think. I offer my neck to him like I’m offering up a buffet to a vampire. “Please …”

“Joey …”

“Only if you want to.” I shift to lessen the pressure my jeans are putting on my cock. “Because I really, really want you to.”

“Joey, you don’t give me a chance.”

“Not true. I’ve given you plenty of chances to tell me to fuck off.”

“And I have.”

“Like you mean it.” We lock eyes, and the intensity in his stare makes me swallow thickly. Makes my breathing shatter. Restart. Break apart all over again.

Then he leans in.

Instead of the immense pressure I’m expecting, his soft lips brush my skin in a kiss. A curl of pleasure travels from my neck, through my chest, and deep into my belly. It’s warm and welcome. The kind of feeling I want to bottle up and keep forever. My hand grips a fist around his shirt.

Art runs a long line of kisses down to my shoulder, and then he closes his lips over my skin and sucks. Hard. Quick. He pulls off in seconds before he starts again. And again. Shivers race through me, and the moan that builds in my chest is way out of my control, but fuck it, I want him to know what he does to me.

Which I’m beginning to suspect is way too much.

Always too much.

He never leaves my mind, and sitting here, with him, is giving me the kind of peace I haven’t had in … I can’t remember ever feeling like this.

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