Page 55 of The Plus Ones
I nod, so quickly, just barely, as I stare at his mouth.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, and then he kisses me, with a low rumble from the back of his throat and five years’ worth of pent-up heat and frustration and just the right amount of tongue.
I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, but he stops kissing me for one second to pull his shirt over his head and toss it away. My hands frantically explore his chest and arms and back, like they know they have to experience as much of him as possible before my brain catches up and tells them to knock it off. He tugs at my hair to pull my head back and expose my neck, and goddammit he goes straight for that spot right below my ear, the one that makes my knees go weak again as soon as his lips press against it.
This time, I just let the wall prop me up and let him continue to make me weak all over.
He strokes the nape of my neck lightly with his fingers while kissing up one side of my neck and then along my jaw to my mouth, where he kisses me, light and fleeting like a butterfly, and then slides his tongue in to penetrate and explore. He massages my hips and then my ass, and he’s kissing me so deeply, like he means it, like he needs it—oh dear God thisman can kiss.
Everything inside me is dropping and lurching and flipping and soaring to such great heights and waiting impatiently to fall again.
His hands find my breasts, cupping and massaging them, and that low rumble becomes a moan.
His hands. They may be manicured, but they can be rough. And I love it.
He’s so hungry for me, and for just this moment it makes me want to give him everything I have to give.
I don’t care if it’s because he hasn’t been with a woman for a while or if it’s because this is me.
I don’t even care that this is Keaton Bridges.
Or that I may just be having some insane reaction to him because I haven’t been with anyone like this for a year.
I reach down to palm the hard-as-rock bulge in the front of his jeans.
“Fucking hell,” he exhales.
Fucking hell is right.
This is going to be quick and dirty, and then we will never speak of it again.
“You need to get inside me immediately.”
“Darlin’,” he says, as he begins to unbutton my blouse, “I respectfully disagree.”
He continues to carefully unbutton every button, so slowly it is agonizing, and then he pushes it down over my shoulders and kisses the bare skin on my right shoulder and slowly peppers kisses just below my collarbone all the way across to my left shoulder, pushing the sleeves down until I lift my hands out of them.
My hands go straight to his face for some reason, and I start kissing him like a crazy teenager. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I just really have to kiss him. He waits for me to calm the fuck down, and when I do, I lean back against the wall again, my hands tucked behind my tailbone.
He drags his fingertips down my chest, slowly, lightly, from my clavicle down to my cleavage, and then reaches behind my back to unhook my bikini top and swiftly reaches up behind my neck to untie the straps and lets it fall to the floor.
He stares at me. His jaw goes slack and his eyelashes flutter for a second, and then he regains control of himself. “Roxy fucking Carter,” he says, his voice so low and deep. “Goddamn.”
He takes one step to the side, slides one arm behind my shoulders and one behind my knees, and lifts me up to carry me to the bed. As soon as my back is on the mattress, his lips begin their delicious downhill journey. From my lips to my neck to my breasts to my belly and down, down, down.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper. I force my eyelids open and raise my head to see where he went.
He’s kneeling on the floor, looks up at me while reaching under my skirt and slowly pulling my bikini bottom down. He swiftly pushes my skirt up to my waist and hikes one of my legs over his shoulder. He massages my hips again—God, why does that feel so good—and then turns his head to kiss and nibble on my inner thigh, slowly, slowly moving closer to the part of me that is dying for him. When he’s close enough that he could kiss me there, he teases my clit with his warm breath and the tip of his tongue, and—dammit—the anticipation has me trembling.
“Goddammit, Keaton,” I whisper. I run my hands through his hair while his tongue circles and flicks and sweeps. The long, slow licks have me shuddering. The way he continues to stroke my hips and my ass and my thighs, my whole body feels attended to and worshipped. The way he’s moaning and humming while he performs tongue gymnastics, it creates vibrations that I feel everywhere. My hips move in rhythm with his tongue as it probes in and out, and then two fingers slide in and out and twist and curl, and just as I start to tense up, his fingers pull out and he sucks hard on my clit.
“Oh shit!” I cry out. I grab on to his shoulders near his neck and squeeze tight. He digs his fingernails into my ass and groans, and that’s when I remember the sunburn. “Oh shit! Sorry! Did I hurt you?”
“Nothing hurts right now,” he mutters, and then he goes back to sucking and stimulating my G spot until I’ve come so hard, I’m surprised I haven’t crushed his face and fingers.
Okay. Now let’s get this next part over with before it turns into a whole big thing.
He stands up and reaches into the pocket of his jeans, producing a condom package, and tears the wrapper with his teeth.Fucker.Has he been planning for this all night?
