Page 55 of Take My Breath Away
James’ kiss is gentle, almost shy and hesitant. It’s not what I expect from this confident and assured man, and somehow that gives me the courage to press for more. He reads me, just as he always seems to, and as one we deepen the kiss, the tangle of our tongues sending a shivery tingle dancing down my spine.
Whether I pull him, or he eases me down, we’re lying together on the rough grass, our bodies crushing against each other. His arousal’s a hard ridge against my hip and I rock into him, the tug on my cock deliciously painful. I scrub my fingers through his hair, cupping the back of his head in my hands, dragging him in closer, wanting to absorb him into me.
Wanting him in me.
The heat I feel for this man, the lust, desire and want, mixed with something softer, is a heady, intoxicating and irresistible brew. I rut hard against him, making it clear what I need.
We break the kiss, desperate for air. I gaze up into his face, the thrill of the kiss rushing through me. James is so close, the waft of his ragged breath rushing across my heated skin.
His pupils are dark, deep depths with only the suggestion of green at their outer edge. His hair’s messed and roughed up, his lips puffy and spit smeared, his face flushed. He’s so removed from the controlled, sleek man I know and a heady mix of excitement and pride surges through me, because it’smewho’s brought him to this.
Me.
He trails the backs of his fingers across my cheek.
“Chocolate,” he murmurs, his lips tilting into a lopsided smile. “Creamy, sweet, rich chocolate kisses, and totally irresistible.” He’s still smiling, still trailing his fingers across my cheek, still looking at me through dark, dazed eyes.
“Chocolate? It sounds like you’ve just snogged a Flake.”
His answering laugh is low, deep and rough, making my skin goosebump and my cock beg.
“But it’s not the chocolate that’s irresistible.” He shifts in closer, making my heart thunder. “It’s you, Perry. You, who could make a sinner of a saint, and a saint of a sinner.”
“Which are you?” I edge forward, so close we share the same breath.
James’ hand coils around the back of my neck, warm, strong, and sure. He doesn’t answer, but I don’t care because I don’t care about anything other than the dark and desperate kiss that—
Doesn’t come.
“Matilda. Blasted, silly animal.”
James lurches backwards, leaving the wide open sky above me, before it’s filled with the red-gold furry face of an Irish Setter, all lolling tongue and dog breath.
“Sorry about that. The silly thing’s just being friendly.”
The gruff voice belongs to a ruddy, wrinkled faced old man, just emerging from the brow of the hill.
“Oh, that’s okay.”
I don’t mean a word of it, because it’snotokay, not in any shape or form or in my wildest dreams. I push myself up to sitting, self-conscious and awkward as I tug my fleece down, wondering what the man, who I really want to shove back down the hill, might have seen.
I shoot a quick glance at James, who’s loose and relaxed as he leans back on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankles, his jacket laying across his groin. His hair’s been tamed and although there’s still a hint of red in his cheeks, it could be put down to the steady breeze. He gives me a quick wink before he focuses on the old man, who’s fussing over the dog.
“That’s a tough walk, all the way up here from the village,” James says, his voice friendly yet at the same time clipped and authoritative. The old man almost stands to attention.
“It certainly is. I come up here as much as I can, which isn’t that much anymore — the old legs aren’t what they were — but the view makes it worthwhile. Are you visiting the area for the potato festival next week?” He looks from James, to me, and back to James.
“Sorry…” I say, trying not to gawp.
Has he really just said there’s a potato festival…?
“It draws the crowds from all four corners of the county. It’s a celebration of all the traditional varieties. There’s a guess the weight of the potato competition, potato carving demonstrations, and stalls selling potato based products. The local radio station’s even going to be sending down a reporter.” I swear the old man stands straighter as his chest puffs out with potato filled pride.
“Sadly, no,” James says. “Had we known about it we’d have timed our visit better. We’re here for a short break, staying at a cottage owned by some friends in Rock Lane.”
The old man answers with an approving nod. “Rock Lane, yes, very quiet and away from the hubbub and bustle of the harbour area.”
I meet James’ eye, the slight raise of his brow forcing me to look away to hide the grin tugging at my lips. Hubbub and bustle are not words that can be used of Love’s Harbour.
