Page 58 of Pack Me Up
That does it. I reach for her, my hands finally moving on their own. I cup her jaw, fingers trembling, and pull her in.
Our lips fit together perfectly. She melts into me, arms wrapping around my shoulders, and suddenly it’s like we’ve been doing this forever.
Her mouth is soft and hungry, the taste of her so bright it short-circuits every thought. She kisses like she’s making up for lost time, like she’s starved and I’m the only thing that can fill her. My hands find her hips, then her back, then her hair, and she lets out a little sigh that goes straight to my gut.
I break the kiss, just long enough to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing ragged, her pupils huge. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Wow,” I say.
She laughs, and the sound is sunlight. “Yeah. Wow.”
We stand there, tangled, until the silence gets too big again.
I clear my throat. “Do you want to—”
“Yes,” she says, before I can finish.
I nod, and my hands start to shake again. I try to hide it, but she notices. She always does.
She reaches for my wrist, guiding my hand to her chest. “It’s okay to be nervous,” she whispers. “I am, too.”
“I’m just a beta, Brittney, I can’t knot you.” I have to say it.
She frowns. “And I told you I want you just the way you are. This time, believe me.”
And I do.
I walk her backward, slow, until we’re at the center of the blanket fort. We sink down together, hands and lips never losing contact. I fumble with the cardigan, my fingers clumsy, but she helps, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor.
She’s wearing a band tee and leggings, nothing special, but it feels like unwrapping a present. I run my hands over her arms, her shoulders, her waist, desperate to memorize every inch.
She tugs at the hem of my shirt. “Off,” she says, and I grin, because she’s perfect.
I pull my shirt over my head, and she stares for a second, eyes wide.
“God, you’re hot,” she says, and it’s so earnest I want to cry.
“So are you,” I manage, and she grins, then tugs her own shirt off. She’s wearing a simple black bralette, the kind that looks like a sports bra but isn’t.
I reach for her, touch gentle, and she shivers at the contact. I trace the line of her shoulder, down to the dip of her waist, then back up to the base of her throat. Her pulse is like a hummingbird’s, wild under my fingertips.
“Can I?” I ask, tugging at the hem of her bra.
She nods, biting her lip. I peel it off, slow, and she gasps a little as the cool air hits her. Her breasts are small and perfect, nipples already peaked.
I stare, unable to help it.
She blushes, but she doesn’t look away. “You can touch me,” she says, voice small.
I do. I run my hands over her, gently, then firmer, mapping her skin. She arches into my touch, head tipped back, and eyes fluttering shut.
I bend down and kiss her neck, then lower, trailing my lips across her collarbone, then down to her chest. She makes a sound, high and sharp, when I take her nipple in my mouth, and I do it again, just to hear it.
She’s so responsive, so alive, every touch sparking a new reaction. I could do this forever.
Her hands roam my back, nails digging in as I move lower. She pulls me closer, hips pressing up against mine, and the friction makes my head spin.
I kiss down her ribs, her stomach, stopping at the waistband of her leggings.
