Page 52 of Victorious: Part 2
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
The moment stretches between us, full of possibility, want, and the electric tension that’s been building, and on occasion exploding. We both know we’re standing on the edge of something that will change everything.
“Clover…”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know all the reasons why we shouldn’t.”
“But?” he asks, his voice laced with tension.
“But I’m tired of being sensible all the time. Tired of always doing what’s expected, what’s safe.” I sit up, meeting his eyes directly. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Vegas, and this, whatever this is, will get complicated. Tonight is just ours.”
Phoenix sits up, too, and suddenly we’re close enough that the warmth from his skin radiates through me.
“If we do this,” he says quietly. “There’s no going back. No pretending it didn’t happen, no writing it off as a mistake.”
“I don’twantto go back, and there’s no way this is a mistake,” I tell him honestly.
That’s all the invitation he needs.
He reaches for me, pulling me closer until I’m practically in his lap, and when he kisses me this time, it’s with a certainty that takes my breath away.
This isn’t the desperate, stolen kisses we’ve shared before.
This is a choice, deliberate and mutual, and full of promise.
Under the blazing canopy of desert stars, with Dracula purring nearby and the sand dunes singing their ancient song in the distance, Phoenix and I finally stop fighting what’s been inevitable from the moment we met.
His lips crush against mine again, deeper, as if he’s been holding this in for far too long. His hands frame my face with reverence, thumbs stroking over my cheeks while his tongue explores my mouth with aching, deliberate precision. I moan into him, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to this moment.
One hand slides down, cupping the back of my neck while the other travels lower across my spine, over my hip, and finally gripping my thigh, pulling me tighter against him until there’s no space left between us. Every line of his body presses into mine, igniting nerves I never even knew existed.
I feel him, all of him, hard and straining through his jeans, pressing against the very center of me. My thighs clench in response, my breath coming fast, desperate gasps as he kisses down my jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the sensitive spot just beneath my ear.
“Tell me to stop. Please tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my skin, voice hoarse, wrecked with restraint.
I shake my head, my fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, nails dragging across his bare stomach. “I can’t,” I whisper back.
He groans, his hand moves again, this time under my hoodie, palming the soft curve of my waist, trailing fire in his wake. Histhumb brushes the underside of my breast, not quite touching.
He’s teasing.
And when I arch into him, silently begging, he finally cups me fully, his touch reverent and possessive all at once. I whimper, the sound slipping out before I can stop it. He growls against my throat and lies me back on the sleeping bag, following me down, hovering over me.
His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my leggings. My breath catches, and my legs instinctively fall open, inviting more.
His fingers slide down, beneath my panties, pressing firmly against my clit. He slides them through my slick folds, and I instantly arch up against him while a small moan slips from me.
“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, kissing me harder, deeper. It feels like he’s trying to brand me with it.
His fingers circle slowly, then press, and the jolt of pleasure that rockets through me has me gasping his name. “Phoenix!” My back arches. My nails dig into his shoulders. My hips begin to rock against the rhythm of his touch, heat curling through me in waves. My body is already beginning to tremble with the pleasure.
His mouth moves with mine, and then lower again, his lips trailing over my jaw, down my throat, until he finds the spot just above my collarbone that makes me whimper all over again.
His free hand fists in the blanket beside my head as his other works me with maddening precision, drawing me closer and closer to the edge. Then he shifts, his hips grinding down into me, matching the motion of his fingers, making it impossible to think, to breathe. My hands grip his hair, pulling, desperate, begging himnotto stop. My entire body shakes, trembling, caught on the knife’s edge of release.
But I wantmore.
