Page 60 of Heated
She waits, an air of nervousness about her, as if she half expects me to turn her down. And there’s a part of me that’s leery of being the focal point of that lens. But a bigger part, a needier part, craves for this moment to be captured. Craves for this moment to be immortalized ... with her. Because in three months, we’re walking away from oneanother, and that part selfishly needs for her to remember me. And not just as the pretend boyfriend.
“Yeah.”
She smiles and fiddles with the camera once more. Satisfied, she moves toward me and steps into my body. Our sides brush, but I’m not happy with that. When she looks at this picture later tonight, a week from now, in another year, I want her tofeelme.
I curl my arm around her shoulders, bringing her breasts into my side. Her hand flattens on my stomach, whether to brace herself or hold herself closer, I’m not sure. I’m not sure I care. I do care that her other hand slides under the shirt at my back. I care that her soft palm presses to my sensitized skin.
I care because now I’m hard, throbbing, and greedy for more.
The click and flash of the camera distract me for as long as it requires to take the pictures. And I can only imagine what it catches. I’m not that damn good to hide the lust that’s no doubt hardening my features or my eyes.
We continue to stand there, her breasts cushioning my side, her thighs spread on either side of my leg. Her hand splayed over my rigid abdomen, her fingers caressing the patch of skin above my waistband.
My dick a goddamn flagpole shoving against my zipper, ready for her to run her hand up it.
“Get your camera, and I’ll walk you to your door.”
My voice is rough, almost angry, but that’s lust, not rage. That’s the heat pumping through me, agitating an appetite that has no hope of being satiated.
I fucking crave this woman.
Is there another word? Something else to describe how even just a simple touch of her fingers stroking my lower back can have a vise grip seizing it? Have the soles of my feet sizzling? Have my balls drawing tight and me tingling, staring an orgasm in the face?
She’s dangerous.
No, no. She’s fucking heinous.
And yet I’m walking her to her door, ready to plead, if necessary, for more of that touch. More of that mouth. That tongue.
I’m not even going to think about that pussy because I’ve never done anything that goddamn good to deserve it.
She stares at me, and I believe those dark-chocolate eyes peer into my thoughts. It’s ridiculous, fanciful, and yet I wait for the shame to rush in. But it never appears. There’s no guilt, not even a residue of shame when it comes to this clawingthinginside me. It’s too consuming, too ravenous.
After several moments, she steps back, and I lower my arm. She packs up her camera, and then I’m walking beside her up the steps to her porch. I silently watch as she opens her front door, and tension creeps into my body. My gut clenches, and I feel like an utter animal, a predator, watching her, studying her body language, her cues.
Invite me in. Take me in.
I’m talking about her house. Her arms. Her mouth.
Nothing else.
Nothing else, dammit.
That flash of fear flickers inside me again, and for a second, I almost back off that porch. This is physical. Purely physical. That’sit.
Zora glances over her shoulder at me, and that’s when I realize I actually did backpedal a step. And just that one look centers me. And bycenter, I mean burns away the doubt, the uncertainty, and dials up the electricity snapping inside me.
“Do you want more?” she whispers.
This woman. Turning the tables on me. I knew she saw through me.
She runs a finger down the middle of my palm, then tangles my fingers with hers.
“Do you want me to make you take more?”
Grabbing my words and throwing them back at me. No, not throwing. Gifting them to me.
She pushes the door open and leads me in, and as soon as it closes, I’m on her.
