Page 25 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
“James—”
Closer, closer. All I see are his lips. His shoulders. His beard. Feel his hands on my cheeks. “You keep saying my name like that, Nova. You can’t stand there and demand my feelings and then clam up on me.”
His hands are so rough, so huge, so hard…yet so gentle; his palms cover my entire face, from jawline to cheekbones, lips to ears, his fingertips slide into my hair around my temple, his thumbs brush my lips.
“I don’t want to accept your generosity—your charity—”
“It’s not—”
“Because I fucking like you too, James,” I whisper, over his protestation, as if he never spoke.
His mouth slams over mine, and the moment his lips touch mine, I’m on fire. Alive as I’ve never been alive. I lift up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his, because I can’t not kiss him back, because I need this kiss like I need to breathe. I feel my arms rise, circle his neck, and his hair is soft and silky and thick in my fingers. He rumbles in his chest, and I whimper softly, because his mouth is making me delirious, making me forget myself, my name, my intention to stay clear of him.
That was hopeless from the start, I think, and the moment he entered my home I knew I made a mistake letting him in. Because now he’s in—in my house, in my space, in my head, in my heart. In my veins.
And now, with his tongue gently searching, he’s inside me.
He presses against me, pulling me harder against the cliff face of his chest, and I feel him breathing against me, feel my breasts swelling against his chest. I open my mouth to his, and take his tongue into my mouth and offer him mine, and I taste him, feel the colliding tang of tangled tongues and meshed lips, and I carefully pull his ball cap and sunglasses off his head, set them aside on the nearby counter, and bury my hands in his hair, which is flattened against his scalp from being under a hat. I’m lost in the kiss, pressing harder and deeper, breathing him, feeling him.
And then we’re moving—he’s pressing me backward across the kitchen in a stumble, and I slam up against a countertop, the edge biting into my butt. I squeak in surprise, and he laughs into my mouth; I’m about to retort when his hands breeze downward from my face, carve over my hips, and curl up under my buttocks. God, his hands, his touch—I gasp, press closer into his embrace, and then I’m up in the air, held up by his strong hands, lifted up, his powerful fingers digging into the flesh of my ass, and then I’m slamming down to sit on the counter; I have no choice but to spread my legs wide and accept his narrow, angular hips between the V of my thighs, and now James is closer than ever, all of him pressed against all of me.
I feel him—his heart hammering as wildly in his chest as mine is; I feel his lungs pumping as he breathes into my kiss; I feel his erection throbbing against me, and only two thin layers of cotton separate my core from his erection.
I’m pulsating. Aching.
He leans into me and his mouth devours mine and his breath is my breath and his chest and shoulders block out my kitchen and the entire universe. His arms close me in, envelop me, surround me, shelter me. His beard scratches and tickles and smells like fresh cedar and primal male. His hands, after setting me on the counter, scrape up to the small of my back and delve under the hem of my T-shirt, and now—god, now those mammoth hands are on my bare skin, hot and rough across my spine and so big he can almost wrap his hands around my entire waist…and I’m not exactly dainty.
I lift up, straighten my spine, lift my chest, tilt my face up, bury myself in him, in the kiss which goes on and on and tugs me in, drugs me with its dizzying potency.
As I lift up and lengthen my spine, his hands rise as well, his fingertips dancing along my spine, his thumbs grazing my sides, daring closer and yet closer to the underwire of my bra. I gulp at his breath, tangle my lips around his, searching and hunting for his tongue. I eat his moan. Swallow his grunt as I rake my fingers down his shoulders and under his shirt to scratch up the broad hard expanse of muscular back.
I feel wild. Out of control. I feel ravenous, like a snarling beast that hasn’t eaten for days, weeks, months—years; and which now has a delicious morsel in its jaws.
James is my morsel, and I am a fury of sexual need.
