Page 64 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“Faye,” I rasp, starting to reach for her.
Then stopping.
Because there’s flour on my hands.
And bits of egg I didn’t finish washing off.
And my fingers smell like sour milk.
“Wash up,” she says, her lips twitching. “I’ll start in on the counters.”
“What about the kissing?” I ask, still rasping.
“Maybe we clean up and get the banana bread in the oven first and then do the whole kissing thing?”
“Maybe that might end with another burned loaf.” I make quick work of washing my hands then turn back toward her. “Not that I’d care.”
More pink on her cheeks, her eyes going hot, her body drifting toward mine as I come close. “And maybe,” she whispers, “I wouldn’t care if you put your hands—in any state—on my body.”
I’m moving almost before her words are out, eliminating the last few inches between us.
I plunge my hand into her hair, tilting her head back and dropping my mouth to hers.
She moans, and it’s the best sound on the planet.
But it’s not nearly as good as her body melting against mine, her hands settling on my waist, her tongue tangling with mine.
That has my cock going hard—or harder.
It has my grip on her hair tightening, tilting her head back so I can taste her more completely, so I have her completely under my control, so I can kiss her exactly as I’ve been thinking of.
Dreaming of.
And now she’s rested.
And now she’s made it clear she wants this.
And now?—
“Gray!” she moans, nails digging into my skin.
My control snaps.
Twenty-Two
Faye
I feel the change come over him and I shiver.
But it’s not because I’m cold.
Actually, I’m really, really hot.
Like scorching hot.
His lips work mine, tongue thrusting into my mouth in sleek darts I hope to God will mirror the rough thrusts of his cock.
“Fuck, Faye,” he growls against my lips, his hand in my hair tightening, tugging my head back at the same time his other palm slides down my back, cupping my ass, massaging it…generally driving me freaking insane.
