Page 105 of Cakes for the Grump
And that’s how I end up in his arms under moonlight, for an oval skylight is open above our heads. Perhaps knowing how much I’ll mess up, he doesn’t go directly to the waltz. No, we’re holding each other and swaying. I’m wearing a white blouse and a long skirt as what I thought would be an appropriate choice for etiquette classes. For once, I’m dressed more formally than him.
My hands on his shoulders are a mistake. I can feel the strength underneath his cotton shirt. How good he smells after cooking a whole meal for us is not a detail I wish to know. Or that his hand spans my lower back and one easy nudge has me following his lead.
“You haven’t stepped on my feet yet,” he notes.
“Only because we aren’t moving much.”
“Do you want to move faster?”
“…No.”
“I don’t either.”
This is a risky amount of truth-telling we are doing. My heart certainly thinks so. It’s racing and surging with adrenaline. Not to mention how expansive my boobs are, as if trying to take flight into his chest. They brush against him.
And not that I’m listening to every deviation of his breathing, but there is a noticeable intake.
I do it again.
He pulls me against him.
“When we did that kissing practice, do you think it was enough for people to believe us at the conference?” he asks.
Pressed like this, I can feel him against me.
I should tell him we’ve got adequate practice to maintain my own feelings, so they stay sequestered deep inside.Don’t do it, Rita.
He strokes a line down my back.
We’re both breathing so fast, sharing each other’s air.
I’m lost and revived and lost and revived—drugged on the idea of how much the front of his pants have angled out.
It’s a big bulge my fingers hunger to explore.
“There’s—” I say, and then clear my throat. “No such thing as too much practice, I’ve heard.”
“We’re of the same opinion.”
“Good.”
“How should we do this?” He answers his own question. “Slowly.”
His hand on my back presses firmer to lift me on my toes. I’m shivering in anticipation, my nipples tightening painfully against the blouse. Our feet have stopped moving. His other hand strokes my cheek.
Coming down, he kisses the very corner of my lips. And then the other. A brush against the middle. Such a slow, torturous exploration that I’m getting greedy for more. I open my mouth and try to let him in with my tongue.
“Inside,” is all I whisper, and all restraint lays wasted.
I’m pushed against a wall, pinned there with his hands. There is no escaping as his fingers go behind and squeeze the curve of my ass. Not that I’m running from this. Quite the opposite, I’m trying to arch a leg over his hip. As soon as his cock meets my body, Luke plunders my mouth. It’sravaged. Over and over again, unrelenting through my barely escaped whimpers.
My mind is blank. It feels so good. Like sin. Unadulterated, mind-blanking, body-throbbing ambrosia. I pull apart from him and press my lips against his neck below the ear, and that warm touch makes him rut against me—once—before he regains control of his hips, and pulls my head back by tugging on my hair, claiming my neck in return. Marking me with nips and drags of his mouth, suckling that spot under my chin that makes my legs wobble.
I’m about to drop. He holds me up higher. I think I go for the front of his jeans with my hand when Luke takes my wrist hostage and palms it on the wall behind us. “Do that again, and I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I’ll finish in my pants.”
“You’ve got no idea how close to the edge I am.”
“I haven’t touched you properly yet.”
