Page 28 of So Wrong It's Right

And just like that—I break free.

I hope she’s ready.

Chapter Eleven

Stella

Goddess, Christopherkisses like a dream.

It doesn’t even make sense. I know this is all wrong. I was trying to set him free—why is he kissing me?

His hand grasps my ass and we both groan. “God, Stella. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.”

I swipe my hands under his sensible polo shirt. I don’t want him to think or be able to breathe. I want him just like this—hot and manic and mine.

His skin is smooth, but underneath is all hard muscle. I want to see what I’m touching, so I start bunching his shirt up, frustrated that it won’t come off his body without us separating. He reaches back and pulls it over his head, throwing it behind him.

Christopher is a work of art. He’s chiseled with round, hard muscles. I trace my hands over his pecs, down his sides, and back up. I want to rub against him like a cat. I want to feel that soft, springy chest hair against my breasts. I want him inside me. I want to somehow touch him everywhere at once. I lean down and tongue one flat nipple and am rewarded with the best out-of-control growl of pleasure I’ve ever heard.

And then he’s wrenching the fabric of my dress up.

“Zipper’s in the back,” I say, and then the dress pools around my ankles. I can see the images in his mind cross his eyes. The things he wants to do to me. I’m on board. I am so on board.

“You’re amazing,” he tells me. And for now, I’m going to believe him. I feel warm and more alive inside my body than I’ve ever been. He slows down, running his hand reverently over my bra, down my side, and over my matching midnight blue panties. “Even your underwear has stars.”

“Take them off me.”

His eyes heat as he unwraps me so I’m standing naked in my kitchen in front of the hungriest man I’ve ever seen.

“This body has been driving me crazy for weeks.” He turns me around and places each of my hands on the counter, one at a time. “Don’t move,” he whispers into my ear.

I shiver.

He uses his hands and his mouth all over my spine, the back of my neck, the sides of my torso. He’s creating erogenous zones where there weren’t any before. I grind back against him, wishing he would go faster and thankful that he isn’t.

I try to turn, to get closer to him, but he forces my hands back to the counter. “I said don’t move.” The unexpected order, gruff and low, followed by a feather-light kiss in the middle of my spine is too much. The cry of desperation I’d been holding in bursts out. “That’s right,” he says. “That’s a good girl.”

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