Page 30 of Quietly Falling
“I probably shouldn’t be tryin’ to jump you after everything that happened today.” She frowns and I roll my lips inward to hide my smile because this is easily the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
“I like you right where you are.”
“It’s the only way I can get your attention, it seems.”
“It’s definitely persuasive,” I agree, my palms skating up her sides, my thumbs barely brushing the underside of her breasts before retracing the same path back to her hips.
“Bodhi?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you gonna kiss me?”
“So impatient.”
“I’m trying to let you be a gentleman,” she huffs, and I grin because she’s cute all hot and bothered and so damn tempting.
Instead of making her wait, I cup her face and lean up to meet her, my lips brushing over hers in a way that’s almost maddeningly sweet. She doesn’t rush me, but I can feel the way her body is practically vibrating with need as she fits herself against me.
Her soft curves are the perfect match to my hard lines, and it damn near feels like a reprieve having her like this.
A gift.
But those feelings turn from a simmer into something more akin to an inferno when she rocks her hips, her pussy grinding against my cock through our clothes. Fuck, it feels good.
She whimpers, and I hold her tighter against me, rolling us until she’s pinned between me and the mattress.
“Perfectly executed,” she manages as I kiss the spot behind her ear, one arm braced on the bed and the other trailing up and down her stomach.
“Am I gonna get the play-by-play?” I tease, the concept completely foreign to me, except apparently withher.
Peeking one eye open, she purses her lips. “I was just trying to compliment you. It’s like saying give my regards to the chef when the meal’s been good.”
Pushing up to look at her, I open my mouth and close it, my brows furrowing before I can find the words. “You’ve done that? Actually given your regards to the chef?”
She lifts one shoulder the best she can lying down, and even though it’s dark, I swear she blushes. “No, but I think it seemed like the appropriate analogy.”
This line of conversation should probably be a mood killer—my performance in line with theregardsof an imaginary chef—but it feels like a challenge.
And I like it.
“Well, let’s see how I measure up then, hmm?” I ask, my fingertips skating along the exposed skin between the top of her leggings and the bottom of her shirt.
“Please.”
15
ELLA
Imight die.
Right here.
In this room from the sheer anticipation alone.
Oh my God.
I’m already in sensory overload; the roughness of his fingers against my smooth skin is almost too much.
