“Is that a real question?”
We laugh, and my heart thumps while I wait for her to make a move. I said she could set the pace. Now to keep my hands to myself until she lets me know how this should go.
Her hands are gentle on my face, and for a few moments, she just looks at me, and then, eyes still locked with mine, she takes my bottom lip between hers. There’s something uncertain in her gaze when she tilts her head and deepens the kiss with the first pass of her tongue over my teeth. It’s an exploration, a tentative touch that singes my lips and ripples from the point of contact to the tips of my fingers.
It may be the sweetest moment of my life.
I grip the sheets, pressing my back deeper into the pillows, fighting the urge to pull her closer, tighter. Fighting the urge to do what I’m conditioned to do. Take over. I’m the floor general. I run the team. This is foreign, putting the ball in someone else’s hands. It goes against everything in me to let someone else call the plays, but I’ll do it. God, I think for Iris I’d do anything.
She stares at me while our mouths meld, cling, open, and the intimacy swells between us the longer we watch each other. The longer we taste each other. With every second, the more I have, the more I want. She pulls away just long enough to glance at the sheet knotted in my fists. With a smile, she sifts her fingers into my hair.
“August,” she whispers, “you can touch me.”
I’ve been waiting for permission, but now I’m the one who’s tentative. It’s crazy. We’ve kissed before. Hell, in that closet, we did a lot more than that. But there’s something more fragile about her this time. I’m a big guy. I’m sometimes clumsy and not always careful. Whatever is fragile about her, I’d rather die than break.
“It’s okay,” she says softly. “Touch me how you want.”
My hands glide over her waist, slipping under her T-shirt and learning the exquisite craftsmanship of her ribcage, the flare of her hip. My lips wander down her cheek and dot kisses over her chin, jaw, neck, every inch of fine-grained skin I can get to. She’s the most intoxicating champagne. I sip. I drink. I slurp. I gulp her until I can’t remember the taste of another woman—there’s only ever been her scent and her hair and her shape. She is singular, obliterating every kiss that came before her, eliminating the possibility of anyone else ever tasting this good.
She ducks her head, recapturing my lips, angling her mouth, as hungry for it as I am. Her lips are greedy. Her tongue matches min
e, velvety stroke for velvety stroke. I’m panting, almost choking on need. Knowing she wants this as much as I do drives it higher. It’s wet and hot and urgent. Every kiss stokes the craving that’s been brewing between us since our first moment in that bar.
She presses closer, whimpering under my hands and crawling onto my lap, straddling me. The smallest movement of her hips rolling over me stills us both. I’m only wearing a thin hospital gown, so she has to feel how hard I am. I thrust up, and she drops her head into the cove of my neck and shoulder, her breath a heat wave on my skin. Our hips move in concert, each of us seeking traction, relief. She sits up, capturing my eyes and rocking into me, the rhythm of her body steady and deep. Her eyelids droop, and her mouth falls open on a quiet moan.
“Oh, God, August.” Her brows pinch together and she bites her lip, rolling over me, dropping her head back until her neck is elongated. I lick the stretch of satin from her jaw to her collarbone. I nudge the neck of her T-shirt aside, licking the tops of her breasts. I insert my tongue, dipping in to taste her cleavage.
A knock on the door startles us. She’s still scrambling off my lap and I’m reaching for a blanket to cover my erection when the door swings open.
Fucking Kenan.
First, he elbows my head.
Now, he blocks my cock.
With his jet-black brows lifted, Kenan tips his mouth in a knowing half-grin.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not part of the concussion protocol,” he says. “If so, you can elbow me in the head.”
“Jackass.” I grin, still panting, and run my fingers through my hair. “You come to finish me off?”
His smile evaporates, and he steps farther into the room. They don’t call him Gladiator for nothing. At nearly six-eight, with wide shoulders and a broad chest and just about zero body fat, I’m glad we’re on the same team.
“Bruh, I’m sorry.” He crosses over to the bed, glancing speculatively at Iris.
“Kenan, this is Iris.” I grab her wrist so she doesn’t leave the bed just because he’s here. “Iris, this is the man responsible for my concussion.”
“I know,” she says smiling faintly, her cheeks still rose–gold with embarrassment. “I saw. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he says, not trying to hide his curiosity. “You look so familiar.”
Iris stiffens at my side and tugs harder until her wrist is free. “Maybe I’ve just got one of those faces,” she murmurs, her smile stiff and plastic.
Her text alert sounds, and she frowns down at her phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s just Lo asking me to translate something Sarai is saying. Sometimes I’m the only one who understands her.”