Page 68 of Love Me Tomorrow

“Fuck.”

She curls her fingers, dragging them up again to press firmly on her clit. A sexy as hell moan spills from her lips. “You single-handedly ruined years of me being good-girl Savannah Rose. You made me crave and you made me want, and no matter what I did to put this needy woman back in the box, I couldn’t make it work. Not beforePut A Ring On It, not when I was on the show, and not now either. You did this to me, Owen . . . and I can’t say that I regret it.”

Control splintering, I propel forward off the couch like a missile aimed for its singular target.

My hands land on her naked thighs, and my knees hit the rug, and then my mouth is moving over hers with such ferocity I almost expect her to snap back in shock.

Except that she doesn’t.

Instead, she cups my face and meets me with an aggression, a need that is only a mirrored reflection of my own.

Kissing Savannah yesterday felt like a dream.

But kissing her as we are now, with her nearly naked and all mine to touch, feels like coming home.

20

Savannah

I’m drowning.

In Owen’s scent.

His taste.

His touch.

I made the thirty-five-minute drive to Barataria with only one mission in mind: learn why he never once told me that Amelie, of all people, was the one who helped him get onPut A Ring On It.

That was the plan. Keyword there beingwas—because as soon as I saw his concern for me written all over his ruggedly handsome face, it suddenly didn’t matterhowhe’d ended up on the show. The only thing that mattered was the why of it all, and that, he’s been showing me for so long that it doesn’t even bear questioning.

I feel it in his vice-like grip on my thighs.

I hear it in his guttural groan just before he changes the angle of our kiss to take it deeper, to push me for more.

I taste it on his tongue, which sweeps into my mouth like he owns it.

Like he ownsme.

Owen may not be the sort of guy my parents would pick for me, but that’s okay—because he is whoIchoose for me. His determination. His sarcastic humor. His utterly awful dancing skills that make my heart flutter, even when they leave me hopping around like a hot potato, always yanking back my feet to keep from losing a few toes.

His thumb caresses the corner of my mouth. “You’re smiling,” he rasps.

“Just thinking of you dancing.”

“Promise I have rhythm where it counts.”

And then he’s back to kissing me, full-on, like it’s a matter of life or death.

I was right: Owen Harvey will be my ruin, but boy, it feels so damn good to let go.

I strain in his embrace, seeking more skin-on-skin contact. He doesn’t give it to me, not fully, but his hands move from my thighs to frame my hips. Tipping me backward, his left hand drops to my belly before skimming up, over my naked skin, applying just enough pressure that I release his shoulders to grip the coffee table like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

He takes advantage, a wicked grin spreading on his face, and cups my breast. Flicks his thumb over my nipple.

Oh, God.

I’m not the biggest girl out there—a solid B cup on a good day with an amazing push-up bra to seal the deal—but he stares at me as though I’m the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. Then his gaze veers up, to my face, and with reverence coating every word, he breathes out, “I’ve waited so damn long for this.”

---