Page 103 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I don't want it to be.
I grab his hair and pull him down to me, kissing him back with everything I've got. I devour his mouth; he devours mine.The kiss is raw, greedy, full of everything we've both been trying not to say.
Even as he tries to hold back, I can feel his control unraveling. He groans against my lips, his hand sliding down my body, setting every nerve on fire.
My legs part on instinct. I press my hips against his hard stomach, gasping at the friction. The sweet ache builds until I'm moving against him, desperate for more.
He tears his mouth from mine, panting, and begins to unbutton my blouse one slow button at a time, his gaze never leaving mine, his touch trembling somewhere between worship and hunger.
"This is my favorite part, you know," he growls, his gaze locked with mine as his lips hover over my breast. "Unwrapping you like a present… knowing I'm the one who gets to taste you, to make you come for me. Only me."
"Only you," I whisper.
His smile is slow and sinful as he peels my shirt from my shoulders and takes his time unclasping my bra.
He swirls his tongue around my nipple, deliberately avoiding the center where I ache for him most. I beg, strain toward him, but he holds back for what feels like forever until, without warning, he closes his mouth over me.
I gasp as he flicks the hardened peak with his tongue, then suckles hard.
He takes his time, drawing out every sound, every shiver. Every kiss and touch winds me tighter until I'm trembling, desperate, needing him inside me.
"Grayson," I sob, clutching at his hair, trying to pull him up, but he doesn't relent. He releases me with a soft pop, looks up through hooded eyes, and says, "You keep fighting me, and I'll tie you up."
A sudden rush of heat floods between my thighs. I squeeze my legs together instinctively, and his wicked smile says he notices.
"Do you want me to tie you up, baby?"
"No," I say quickly, perhaps too quickly.
"I think you do," he murmurs. "I think you'd like that very much."
Before I can protest again, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the bedroom. My breath comes in short, uneven bursts as anticipation coils inside me.
He sets me down on the bed, then strides to the closet. When he returns, he's holding a pair of soft, furry handcuffs.
The glint in his eyes makes me swallow hard.
What follows, after he fastens the cuffs around my wrists and secures me to the bedpost, is one of the most exquisite, torturous experiences of my life.
He explores every inch of me with his mouth, his tongue, his hands—mapping my body like he's discovering sacred ground. He finds places I didn't know could feel good. He makes me scream, beg, whisper things I never meant to say.
He makes me feel worshipped.
He makes me feel safe.
He makes me feel whole.
Tears prick my eyes as he takes me to the edge again and again, his mouth relentless, his gaze never leaving mine.
I love you, I realize, biting my lip to keep the words trapped in my throat.
I fucking love you.
And I have no idea what I'm going to do about it.
When I wake the next morning, I'm alone.
Grayson's gone. The space beside me is cold, and the ache in my chest feels like someone's scooped something out and forgotten to put it back.
