Page 87 of Miami Ice

Ooh!

“Your forehead,” he suggests, his index finger traveling across it.

“Yes.”

“Or your nose,” he says, that same finger moving lightly over the slope of my nose.

He continues to explore me, and now his fingertips are brushing across my collarbones. “This area is highly underrated for kissing.”

I swallow. Beckham is going to kill me. He’s going to kill me with foreplay before kissing—who knew that was a thing.

And if I survive this? I won’t be able to survive sex with the man, I know it.

I shiver from his touch. A pleased smile passes over his lips.

Now his fingertip lightly grazes the area between my breasts. “I could kiss you here, with your clothing on,” he suggests.

I begin to sweat. “You … could.”

“May I?” he asked, his voice rugged.

Everything in me grows tight in a way that is new to me.What a delicious feeling this is,I think in wonderment.

“Yes,” I say, marveling at how my body is responding so urgently to merely his words.

Beckham shifts, dipping his head lower. My hand finds the back of it, and I sink my fingers into his brown locks, holdingmy breath as his lips press a kiss through the thin fabric of my blouse. I arch the second I feel the warmth of his lips through the fabric, pressing into my skin. It’s sensual. Intimate. Wonderful.

“I can feel your heartbeat against my mouth,” Beckham whispers, kissing that same spot again. “It’s beating like crazy, Georgie.”

I still beneath him.

Beckham has kissed my heart.

I don’t know why this matters, but it does.

His hand finds the curve in my waist as he lifts his head. Our eyes meet, and the look in his eyes is not feral. I know mine isn’t, either.

It’s something far more emotional.

And from both our hearts.

Beckham lowers his mouth to mine, his lips warm and soft as they gently demand access. I open for him, my hand still cradling the back of his head as he kisses me deeply. I feel his stubble graze against my skin, the way his hand is stroking my waist, how his tongue is caressing mine.

I drink from him, exploring him, relishing every second of this kiss. I love how his hard, athletic body is half on mine, the weight of him pinning me against the tree skirt in the most delicious way. I move one hand over the arm that he’s propping himself up on, my fingertips stroking it.

“Scotland,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I break the kiss. “What?”

“The tattoo you’re touching on my right arm”—he pauses to plant another kiss on my lips—“is a nod to my Scottish heritage.”

My heart flutters as he kisses me deeply again.

“The left,” Beckham murmurs sexily against my mouth, “are Celtic tattoos. For the Irish side of my family.”

He just told me about his tattoos. Something he said he never tells anyone.

Beckham lifts his head so he can gaze down at me. “I don’t talk about my ink because it’s about my family. I protect that. But I wanted you to know.”

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