Page 102 of Chasing Love: The Owens
Instead of answering, I tug his shirt, making it so there’s no space between us. He exhales hard.
Bennett pulls back to look in my eyes as his hands slide under my shirt, warm and slow, one inch at a time. His mouth falls to my collarbone, his fingertips dangerously close to my breasts, causing my nipples to pebble.
“Laney,” he whispers against my skin, and the sound of my nickname on his lips wrecks me.
Because this is it. We’re promising ourselves to each other.
This moment is the culmination of everything we never said, everything we never stopped feeling.
And I’m done running.
From him.
From this.
It finally feels as if I’ve come home.
“I need you on a bed,” he whispers.
“My parents are still gone, and Levi is gone. The girls are with your sisters.”
“Perfect.”
He takes my hand, but I tug him back, needing to kiss him one more time. He doesn’t pull away, caging me to his desk, deepening the kiss further and spurring us to both moan.
I don’t want to stop kissing him, touching him, but he has enough willpower for the both of us. He closes the kiss and rests his forehead against mine. “I’m only able to stop because my sisters will be watching the girls overnight, and we’re going to make up for lost time.”
He secures my hand in his, leading me out of the office and flicking off the lights on our way out.
I’d follow him wherever he leads me because I meant what I said. He owns my heart. He always has.
Chapter Forty-One
Delaney
We don’t make it past the front door.
Bennett kicks it shut behind us, his mouth already on mine, hands roaming every inch, as though he can’t decide which part of me he wants to touch first. No one has ever made me feel as wanted as he does.
He presses me against the wall, one hand cupping the back of my neck, the other sliding up under my shirt. I’m already breathless, already burning for him.
“Upstairs?” I gasp between kisses.
He shakes his head, eyes dark and hungry. “No time.”
I don’t argue, instead grabbing the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head. The fabric tears somewhere near the bottom, not that he seems to care.
“I love it when you strip me,” he mutters against my throat while kissing lower.
“Maybe you should do the same.” My fingers work his belt.
“Is that a challenge?” He flicks open the button of my jeans with one hand.
We stumble through the hallway, every step clumsy and frantic, leaving a trail of clothes. Then he spins me toward the kitchen, walking me backward until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the table. He lifts me in one fluid motion, and the thud of wood under my thighs sends a shiver straight through me.
“I’ve thought about you, doing this,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down my neck, over the collar of my shirt. “Every night for seven years.”
“There were so many nights when you were the one I thought of when I touched myself.” I gasp, dipping my hand into the waistband of his pants, tugging him closer. “Your mouth, your hands.”
