Page 850 of One More Kiss
He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes roving frantically.
In the bright lights of the lobby, I take in his appearance. My eyes travel, strolling, reading, assessing his body.
Pale skin, short dark ginger hair, green eyes, uneven lips, freckles on his nose and neck. And his body? It’s a masterpiece—a lean six feet tall to my six-four feet, muscular in all the right places.
He’s perfection.
An acme of beauty and masculinity.
The elevator door opens, and I guide him inside before pressing my floor number.
We are the only two souls in here.
I look down and watch him chew on his lower lip, eyes intently watching the number board.
As soon as the door slides shut, I haul him in front of me and shove my hand under his button-down shirt, my lips pressing gentle kisses under his ear, his jaw. “Relax,” I murmur.
He pushes out a shuddering breath, his stomach quivering to my touch.
My fingers find his nipples and play with the tiny buds. Lips trail over his heated skin, discover his sweet spot, and torment him.
Biting.
Sucking.
Licking.
“Oh, god,” he pants, his breathing veering to shallow bursts. I enjoy his every reaction.
“God is not here. He’s not the one pleasuring you,” I growl.
“Y-yes, Rowan.”
“That’s a good boy.” I let my hands wander down, working on his pants’ button free and unzipping it.
He’s commando. No underwear. No boxers. I like it.
My dick twitches behind my jeans, revived and satyric.
Greedy fingers inch toward his leaking cock and encircle it, working him.
Up and down.
Rise and fall.
Oak whimpers, his lips trembling from need. “Please.”
“Give me your lips,” I demand and he goes along, inclining his head to the side and upturning it, leaving his face open for me to do as I please.
I lick his lips, feel them.
Oak gasps and his lips part when I brush the tip of my pinkie finger over the split on his crown.
“No more,” he cries and pulls away, twisting into my arms and smashes his lips, slanting it over mine.
Our tongues collide, swirling, dueling, sucking. Teeth nip the sensitive flesh, spit painting the edges. Oak’s fingers make their way to my hair, tugging at them.
So possessive. Almost frantic.
