Page 61 of My Sweetest Agony
So, before he can try to talk me out of it again—or I can talk myself out of it—I crush my mouth to his.
No hesitation this time.
The type of all-consuming kiss that tells him exactly what I want and how I feel in this moment so he can’t possibly doubt it.
He issues another throaty groan, his grip on my hair tightening, and his other hand falls back to my waist, trying to hold me still, but I can’t stop my hips from rolling over his hard length.
“Fuck…”
A single word muttered against my mouth is our undoing.
His lips move over mine. Our tongues clash. Souls collide in a way they only can when something so wrong feels so damn right. When two people come together with a shared, pulsating need that can’t be stopped even by stark reality.
I move against him, hungry for that friction that sends little spirals of heated pleasure spreading out through my limbs.
So.
Damn.
Good…
It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything good.
And this is exquisite torture.
My body buzzes, swimming in the feeling, drowning in his lips devouring mine and his hard body beneath me. I thread my fingers through his hair, the thick strands so damn soft under my fingertips as I angle his head and adjust my position so that the head of his cock, encased in his jeans, rubs my clit with each grind of my hips.
A guttural groan rumbles in his chest, his hands tightening at my hips and around the tendrils of my hair clenched in his fist.
“Please…” The word tumbles from my parted lips, so needy and desperate I barely recognize the sound of my own voice. “Please, Cam.”
His mouth presses to mine greedily, but he shakes his head, a battle waging inside him that he can’t seem to quell. “Ivy, we can’t.” He gasps in a ragged breath. “We can’t…”
“Please.” I kiss him again, pushing all my anguish and need into the act. “Please. Please.”
I don’t stop my hips, and he doesn’t stop kissing me, even after his half-hearted objection to the madness.
And this is madness.
The kind of powerful, thought-stealing attraction and need that eliminates any ability to think. All we can do is feel.
Those reasons this is so fucking wrong disappear in the cloud of lust now enveloping us.
It consumes our entire beings, each kiss more frantic. Our clutching hands more frenzied. A feverish rush toward something we both need so desperately.
His hand shifts from my hip and glides forward to the waistband of my jeans. The brush of his calloused skin across my abdomen makes me twitch on his lap, grinding down even harder against his length, and he easily flips the button open and slides his hand inside.
Fuck…
The second his fingers find my slick core, I jolt at the contact, and he groans, so low, so deep it sounds almost painful. Rough fingertips glide up, brushing my arousal across my clit, and I buck in his hold, my hips moving faster, pinning his hand against his cock as I ride it.
Pleasure bursts through me with each of his expert ministrations.
He works me up.
Twisting me higher.
Coiling tighter.
