Page 38 of Someone to Hold
“Chase.”
Her voice trembles, and I pause but don’t pull away. Not yet. I want her too much for that.
But I need to know she wants this, too.
Then it’s like the fucking heavens sing out, because instead of telling me to stop, she whispers, “More.” It’s the answer to the prayer I hadn’t even realized I’d sent up—to God, or the universe, or whatever entity I have to thank.
Her lips are soft and warm against mine. They taste like sunshine and something uniquely her. When I deepen the kiss, she responds with a hunger that matches my own, her fingers digging into my biceps as she pulls me closer.
The world narrows to only this moment. The gentle pressure of her mouth, the way she sighs against my lips, and the warmth of her body pressed against mine. Her breathing quickens, and when I trail kisses along her jawline to that sensitive spot just below her ear, she arches into me in a way that sends fire racing through my veins.
She lets out a little groan, then freezes like she’s embarrassed by the sound.
“Sweetheart, you can make as much noise as you want. The louder the better as far as I’m concerned. There’s nobody here but you and me, and my name on your lips when you’re screaming in pleasure will be music to my ears.”
But she does lean back slightly, her brows pulling together so tight I can almost see the thoughts pinballing through her mind. “Say whatever you need to, Molly.”
“There aren’tactualcobwebs,” she says quietly.
Christ, the way she looks up at me through her lashes with that serious expression is so fucking adorable I want to kiss her senseless all over again.
“It isn’t like I don’t know how to take care of myself. I’ve got a whole nightstand…” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“I will definitely mind,” I counter. “Tell me more about the ways you take care of yourself. Pretty sure the best way to remove the cobwebs image from my brain is to fill it with the details of how you touch yourself.”
Her cheeks turn rosy again. “I’m not telling you a thing.”
I bite back a grin at that prim and proper tone as she tries not to talk about getting herself off. “You’re something special,” I say and then laugh. It feels so fucking good to laugh.
The things this woman does to me without even trying, I can’t explain it. It’s more than want or need, although that’s part of it. She’s just so damnherself, and while she may not be able to appreciate how amazing that is, I certainly do. There’s no pretense or posturing. She doesn’t want anything from me. And it makes me want to give her things I don’t even think I’m capable of.
But Idamnsure know I’m more than capable of dusting off some invisible cobwebs.
“This unwillingness to share your little nightstand kink only makes me want to get it out of you even more.”
I kiss her again, slow and deep, savoring the way she melts against me. Her lips part under mine, and when I trace my tongue along her lower lip, she makes this needy sound that goes straight to my cock. Every kiss is deliberate, like I’m trying to memorize how she shivers when I graze my teeth along her pulse point.
When I feel her relax into me, I move my hands to the bottom of her sweatshirt and then up past the soft fabric of her leggings toher skin. I know it’s smooth, but touching her under her shirt—putting my hands on skin that I haven’t seen—feels like something sacred. Once again, she’s trusting me, even though we both know she shouldn’t.
She sways forward ever so slightly, and it’s all the invitation I need. My fingers graze her ribcage, then trace the edge of her bra, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
I need to see her. I need my mouth on her. Whatever she’s willing to give me, I’ll take it all, greedy bastard that I am.
I start to tug her sweatshirt off, but I get only the barest glimpse of her creamy skin before she jumps away from me like I pinched her.
“Molly—”
Her chest is rising and falling like she’s having trouble gathering air in her lungs. I know the fucking feeling, because when she whispers, “school bus,” I don’t even react.
Until—oh, shit.
The unmistakable wheeze of air brakes cuts through the afternoon quiet, followed by the low rumble of the engine downshifting as it approaches the farm’s driveway.
“What time is it?” she asks, panic lacing her tone.
I point to the clock on the microwave. “Three-thirty. The twins are home.” I’m already moving toward the door. “I’ll run down to the end of the driveway. You?—”
“I’ll be right there,” she says. “They can’t see me in your trailer. Not like this.”
