Page 88 of Rush of Jealousy

I squeeze my thighs against his waist, bringing him closer. His groan escapes, vibrating my neck into a delirious state—sending pulsing sensations due south.

Message received. Loud and clear.

My nipples poke at the material of my bra—standing proud but begging to be free.

Graham’s hands on my hips slide up and down my sides, over my top, pushing it up a few inches in the process. “I want you so badly,” he whispers with carnal desire evident in his breathless plea. “Even when I am mad at you for pushing me away and ignoring me… Even when I am pissed as hell at you for kissing Zander.”

“He kissed me,” I mouth.

“And even when I am furious over you putting yourself in grave danger last night. After all of the things you put me through, I still can’t walk away.” His gaze levels with me. “You are so freaking beautiful. You know that, right? The prettiest thing I have ever seen.” His eyes search mine for a response, but I give none.

I toss my head back and press my chest against his upper body as his mouth claims the hollow valley at the base of my neck.

When did this spot become an erogenous zone?

Utter pleasure flows through me. I never thought that anything could be more intimate than kissing on the lips. I am most definitely wrong. At no time do his hands turn greedy or does his mouth lose concentration. He calculates every move with certainty, reining in his control. He deliberately is keeping me on the edge. Seducing me. We have kissed before—numerous times. But it is like we are dancing with music from our souls now, without ever touching our lips together.

It is raw.

It is intimate.

I shudder at the mere capability of his hands and sexual expertise. Every time he touches me, it feels like he is relearning my body—memorizing every little detail with just his hands and his mouth.

I wiggle my behind on the counter’s edge, my fingers gripping the surface with white knuckles, anchoring my body to keep from melting into a puddle. Every nerve in my body erupts and declares war-like havoc on the reasoning system of my brain. I should stop him before this goes too far. Before Collins walks in. Before I get so involved with Graham that I will never be able to walk away from him without destroying myself.

He is a wrecking ball knocking down every protective wall I have ever built around myself before I can erect another one in its place. I should not allow someone to get emotionally involved when I am incapable of reciprocating at the same magnitude.

What if I am not enough?

His firm lips search along the vein in my neck—kissing and teasing the pulse point—while his fingers caress my clavicle over my shirt, moving my hair back as my spine crumbles into a pile of dust at the slow torture.

“Sit still,” he warns me, gripping my hair and tugging to get my attention. “I’m enjoying myself.”

I yelp and huff out a laugh at the same time. As if I can control my involuntary movements.It’s not my fault!

“Just let me taste a little more. Here, mmm,” he hums, brushing over my earlobe with his warm haunting breath.

Did he just lick me?

Why does he keep doing that? And why do I freaking like it?

Tingles run through my entire core. I feel lightheaded with need.Do not pass out, do not pass out, do not pass out.Why does it feel so damn good? Like I have never been touched before today?

I teeter even further on the proverbial cliff’s edge. My hips plant firmly into his, stretching me to accommodate his width. I can feel his cock jump with each little movement I make. I push off from the counter, sliding along his length through the thin fabric of his lounge pants.

“You should wear these pants again,” I say casually.

“And why is that, baby?”

I ignore him, shooting him my best attempt at a sexy smirk. I think it works because his fast breathing turns into a groan—a deep, guttural plea.

“Tease,” he hisses.

To stop or not to stop?

We have had sex before. But this all feels different. It is about the slow buildup. The anticipation. It’s like he is waiting for me to confirm what he already knows. That I am his.

Our eyes lock. I can see my reflection in the glassy shield of his. He studies my face, and his hands steady me, rubbing soothingly up and down my arms—lifting and squeezing my hair into loose fistfuls. What is it about someone touching my hair? Pure heaven.

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