Page 84 of Bottles & Blades

Maybe I’ll end up heartbroken. Or maybe…this will all come together and make sense.

I don’t know.

Idoknow that I’m not going to fight it, fight this.

So, when he quietly sets my cell on the nightstand and carefully climbs into bed, I do what I wanted to do hours ago when I was sliding into bed next to him?—

I clamber on top of him and…

I kiss him.

He goes still for a second and my stomach squeezes as I wonder if I’ve made a serious mistake.

Thankfully, barely a heartbeat later, hemoves.

One hand dives into my hair, the other slides down my back. The material of his T-shirt has ridden up, and he takes full advantage, his slightly rough palm settling flat on my back. The contact—so hard, sogood—makes me gasp—another thing he takes advantage of, diving his tongue into my mouth, tangling it with mine. The kiss is hard and demanding, and for a second, I freeze, worried that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

But then his handmoves,dipping down beneath the waistband of my underwear, cupping my ass.

And that’s even better.

So good, it spurs me into action.

I meet the thrusts of his tongue, move my hips with the encouragement of that hand until I find it.

The rhythm my body seems to instinctively find.

The rhythm that sent me flying this morning.

I moan against his mouth, rocking faster, and?—

Suddenly, I’m on my back, the bedside lamp on, Jean-Michel poised over me.

My breath catches—the sight of him like this so intense that my head is spinning and my heart is beating so hard it feels as though it will gallop its way out of my chest.

The blankets are tangled around us and he jerks at them, freeing us before letting them drop behind him.

I hold my breath, waiting, unsure,wanting.

“Please, Jean-Mi,” I whisper.

Heat blazing through bright blue eyes.

But, finally, he moves.

Albeit, slowly. Carefully. Each movement precise and measured—as though he has to move deliberately, lest he lose control.

Or maybe that’s me.

“Smart,” he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Sweet.” My lips. “Kind.” My throat. “Funny.” My belly, where my shirt has rucked up. “Beautiful.” He draws the tee higher, slipping a hand behind me, coaxing me to lift up slightly so he can tug the fabric over my head.

Then I’m only wearing my underwear.

My stomach fills with butterflies.

My throat goes dry.

I’m still, certain of what I want, but entirely uncertain of what I should do to get it.

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