Page 53 of Relationship Goals

He grins again, huffing a laugh that cascades across my bared skin, making me shiver.

Then his mouth is on mine again, so fucking right that if I do die, this is a damned good way to go. He pulls away only to kiss down the column of my neck, hot and needy and sending me spiraling tighter and faster.

“I might regret this,” he says against my collarbone.

“I’m not going to talk you out of it, but I don’t want you to regret eating me out.”

Very sensible on my part. Very thoughtful.

He cuts his gaze back up to me, sliding his big hands down my thighs, pressing them apart. Bared to him, vulnerable, I press my palms against the table, arching my back and raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“It’s not eating you out I’ll regret. It’s the fact I can’t take my time making you come over and over again right now that I’ll regret.” He’s so damn serious when he says it. I blink.

“Oh,” I finally say.

“Oh,” he repeats, grinning.

“Wellll,” I stretch out the word, then wrap one leg around his hip. “Do you want your appetizer on the table, on the floor, or somewhere else?”

I can hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth, and we both stare at each other as if daring the other to make a move.

He breaks first, and he springs into action so fast that all I can do is make a surprised squeak as he pulls me against him, pulling me into his arms.

“Wheee,” I say as he practically sprints for the living room. I laugh as he tosses me onto the couch. “Couch it is. TV dinner.”

“No, Abigail, I’m the entertainment, and this is just a snack.”

It makes me laugh a little, even though his eyes are serious, and then he’s kissing down my chest, lavishing attention on each nipple again until I’m writhing with desire.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says against my chest. My breathing’s ragged and rushed, and I can’t even think of an answer, my mind blessedly quiet for once in my life.

My skin heats as he drags a finger down my stomach, gaze still watching my face, watching my reactions, I realize. It makes me smile, something warming deep in my chest that has little to do with the heat of desire racing through me.

There’s an air of calculation to the way he’s watching me, like he’s cataloging every breath I take, every small noise or expression. Like he’s mapping my body with every new touch, figuring out exactly what I want, reading me like an open book.

He moves lower, his breath teasing as he hovers over my underwear.

“Tell me yes.”

“Please, please yes,” I tell him, my fingertips scraping against his dark hair.

The faintest hint of pressure at my hips, and then his fingers tug my underwear from them. Ever patient, ever deliberate, he lifts one of my legs, pulling the black scrap of fabric over my foot, then repeats the process with my other leg.

Rough fingertips glide over my skin, and I shiver as his hands bracket my hips, pinning me to the couch. I’m afraid to breathe, afraid to say the wrong thing or think too hard for fear he’ll change his mind.

My ex-boyfriend, who is the last person I want to think about right now, hated this. Didn’t like oral sex at all, thought it was a waste of time.

I’m nervous, I realize. A second later, I realize I’m holding my breath.

I want him to like this. I want him to like me. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this,” I blurt out.

Well, shit.

“What?” His brow’s furrowed with concentration, and it’s a mix of the sweetest and sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. “Why would you think I feel like I have to?”

“I—” I don’t have words. “I just wanted to say that,” I tell him in a small voice.

He watches me for a moment before saying in a gruff voice, “If someone ever, ever made you feel like you had to say that, they can fuck right off.” His thumbs gently sweep back and forth across my hip bones. “Being able to taste you, to give you this—that’s a fucking gift.”

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