Page 25 of Beauty and the Cop
Apparently, he does too. Or else he just doesn't want to tell me no, because his hand slides to the back of my head, his fingers sinking into my hair.
His sweet breath washes across my face. His lips crash into mine, and I taste the apology in his kiss. He isn't soft or hesitant. His kiss is feral, desperate, like he's been starving for me and finally has permission to devour.
He claims my mouth like it belongs to him, his hands running all over me at the same time—spanning my waist, kneading my hips, sliding up my spine, and fisting in my hair.
My fingers dig into his shirt, twisting the soft cotton tighter with every frantic sweep of his tongue. He smells like aftershave and mint, a combination I'll never get enough of.
The dark, wild hunger in his kiss sends heat spiraling low in my belly, and I can't get close enough. I want to live right here in his kiss, safe from everything except the earthquake he sets off in my chest.
I shift in his lap, trying to get comfortable, and end up straddling him. The move startles me, but the way he growls into my mouth makes me bolder than I've ever been.
He cups the back of my neck and angles my head, deepening the kiss until I'm dizzy. Every time I breathe, I inhale him.
"Jesus, baby," he rasps, breaking away just enough to drag in a breath. His forehead presses to mine, his eyes hooded and dark. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me."
I want to tease him or tell him that he's been doing the same thing to me for the last month, but words have abandoned me. All I can do is kiss him again, harder, until his hands slide downmy back and grip my ass. He grinds me down against him, and oh god, I can feel how hard he is.
The friction between us is electric.
His mouth sweeps along my jaw, down to a spot beneath my ear that makes my knees weak. "You want this?" he asks, his lips brushing my skin. "You want me, Elsie?"
"Yes," I breathe, the word barely audible, but he hears it.
He groans in response—this deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my whole body. One hand slips from my ass, his fingers trailing along my waist before splaying wide against my stomach.
"I need you to tell me if you want to stop," he says, his voice thick. "Anytime. I mean it."
The tenderness of his words nearly undoes me. I nod, but it's not enough for him. He leans back, studying my face, and waits until I meet his eyes.
"Tell me to stop, and I will," he says, even softer this time.
"Don't stop," I whisper.
He kisses me again, and this time, his hand slides down to my thigh and then up, pushing my skirt higher. His palm is warm and steady, his thumb tracing circles that make my pulse race. He finds the crotch of my pantyhose, and I half-expect him to hesitate, but he just tears a little hole near the seam, slipping his fingers through.
I gasp, shocked and delighted by how easily he just…takes what he wants. I've never been that brave, but I love that he is.
He slides his hand up and presses his fingers against my panties—which are embarrassingly damp.
He groans when he realizes how wet I am. "Fuck, sweetness. I haven't even touched you, and you're this ready?"
He'd probably lose it if he knew how long I've been this ready for him. Or how very little my vibrator actually helps alleviate the ache.
His fingers slide under the edge of my panties, thick and rough and gentle all at once. The first touch is a whisper, a shocking contrast to the wild way he kissed me.
I want to writhe, to buck into his hand, but instead I freeze, unable to believe this is really happening, that he's really touching me like this, that I'm letting him.
But it's so good. God, it feels incredible.
He strokes me with careful, reverent touches, circling my clit with the pad of his thumb until I gasp. His other hand braces my lower back, anchoring me to him. The whole world condenses to that small point of heat, to that impossible, dizzying pleasure.
My whole body is a taut wire, ready to snap.
He leans in, pressing his lips to my ear. "That's it, baby. Let me feel you. Been thinking about this for weeks—how you'd taste, how you'd sound when you come apart for me."
The words go straight to my head. They land between my legs, too, right where the slow swirl of his fingers against my clit has me nearly panting. I want to tell him that I don't have the faintest idea what I'm doing, but it feels too vulnerable. So I just hold onto his shoulders and let him take the lead.
He must sense the hesitation in my body, because he softens his touch, slowing to just barely-there strokes. "I'll go as slow as you want," he murmurs. "Just tell me, sweetness. Tell me how it feels. Tell me what you want."
