Page 45 of Hold You Close
“Oh, my God! Stop!” She giggles, writhing underneath me. “Ian!” She slaps my arm.
The pillow goes flying, and I grin as I continue my assault “What did you say?”
“Asshole!” She bursts out in a fit of giggles and I stop.
“You’re so beautiful when you laugh,” I say, and she goes still.
I don’t know why I said it, but I can’t take it back, and I meant it. Sheisbeautiful when she laughs. She’s beautiful all the time, but I’ve done everything possible to stop seeing her that way.
“Ian.” Her eyes stay on mine. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I’m not. You’re beautiful and you know it.”
We both stare at each other. The laughter is gone and my cock is rock hard.
This isn’t to shut her up.
This isn’t a game.
I want her, and there’s no way she doesn’t feel that right now.
“This . . .” she starts to say, and then her hands move up my chest. “This isn’t . . .”
“This isn’t what?”
Her fingers inch up my neck, cupping the back of my head. “A good idea.”
“Probably not.” I run my hands up her side, waiting for her to tell me to stop. I touch every curve, feel her skin again.
She was always the smart one between the two of us. I was always the idiot. I hurt her and broke her heart, but I fucking destroyed myself at the same time. She never knew that. To her, I was the asshole who fucked her and never looked back. I made promises that were broken because I got what I wanted.
None of that was true.
I wanted her.
I wanted all of her.
I ended up losing any chance of that.
Fuck, I’m a fool.
“Tell me to stop,” I command her as my hand gets closer to her chest. “Tell me now or beg for more.”
“Stop.” But her voice is breathless and her hands are in my hair.
“Stop what?” My left hand is inching up her ribcage, my thumb sweeping the underside of her breast.
“Confusing me.”
I’m feeling brave enough—and turned on enough—to brush my thumb over her nipple. It’s hard enough to poke through her bra and her top, and when I touch it, she arches her back, inhaling sharply. “What are you confused about?”
Her fingers curl in my hair. “You. This. Us. There shouldn’t be an us.”
“Nope.” I keep rubbing the stiff little peak with my thumb, and when she doesn’t protest, I lift up her shirt. “There shouldn’t.”
“Oh, God,” she whimpers as I lower my mouth to the fullest part of her breast. “That feels so good, but . . .”
Words seem to fail her as I pull down the lacy cup of her bra and stroke her nipple with my tongue. Once. Twice. Then in a lazy little circle.
