Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

Because, apparently, there’s a whole other kind of kiss out there.

A kiss you can drown in.

A kiss that’s soft and tender, but passionate and deep. It’s a fierce, hazy vibration, like all my senses have been tuned and sharpened. Like I’m a violin, and the man playing me isn’t even a master; he’s just obsessed with the strings.

That’s how it feels. This kiss feels a little like a dreamy obsession.

I sink into it, falling deeper and deeper into the sighs and murmurs, into the groans and gasps. Into the hands that clasp my cheeks, roughly at first, but then travel, sliding down my arms, along my sides, around my back.

I don’t even know where to focus. Pleasure pings me everywhere, zipping to my toes and fingertips. But most of all, it’s right here inside me, pulsing between my legs. I don’t want to wait a single second longer.

I somehow find the will to break the kiss and run my thumb along his swollen lips, meet his dazed eyes. In them, I see a wild need I’ve never witnessed before. “Take me. Take me now.”

He sweeps me up in his arms, crosses to the king-size bed, and strips me. Then his clothes vanish too.

Welcome to London, Jo.

5

HEATH

Two voices echo in my head.

One needles me, taunting. “It’s been a while. Do you even remember how this works? Surely, there are new techniques that have emerged over the years. New tricks. New skills. You don’t know any of them.”

The other one simply whispers, “Touch her, kiss her, please her.”

As I make my way up her naked flesh, brushing openmouthed kisses along her thighs, the dip of her stomach, the curves of her hips, bless them indeed, that voice quiets the other.

Some things haven’t changed at all.

Desire.

I kiss her skin, her breasts, her shoulders, and the delicious hollow of her throat with fervor that borders on worship. Her moans tell me that’s exactly how she likes to be touched—like she’s adored.

She arches and writhes, her hands flying to her hair, her own fingers threading through her lush locks, like somehow that’s the only way she can handle this lust.

I’m not sure I can handle this lust. I’m not sure what to do with this overabundance of it, a supply that can barely even seem to fit in this room, let alone this building.

But I’m willing to try.

Oh yes, I am.

I pour all my longing into the way my hands roam along her body. She loops a hand into my hair, then slides the other down my chest, pressing it firmly against my pecs.

“Hold on. We need a condom,” she breathes.

“Right, right,” I say, nodding, then jump off the bed. I root around for my trousers. I grabbed one from the concierge when we walked into the hotel.

But when I turn around, she’s brandishing one. “I’m prepared too.”

Maybe she grabbed it from her purse, or had it on the nightstand, or who fucking cares.

That’s just . . . smart.

“Ladies choice, then,” I say.

“Yours now, mine . . . next time,” she says.

I like her philosophy, and I’m back on the bed in the span of one breath, rolling it on, then kneeling between her legs.

She parts her thighs, and a rumble works its way up my chest, skips my lips.

Have I ever sounded this carnal before? This greedy?

Hell if I know.

She’s so beautiful, ready, and aroused. “I could spend hours worshiping your body. Kissing you. Tasting you,” I tell her.

She nods, then makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “I have no doubt I’d come fifty times. But right now, I really want you inside me.”

“Ask and it shall be given to you,” I say. Then, I sink in.

Her body grips me, so hot and tight and so wickedly wet, that the thought occurs to me—I won’t last long. And yet, there is no way on heaven and earth that I’m going to come before her.

I grit my teeth, lower my chest, and swivel my hips, concentrating on her. Jo’s hands curl around my head, her fingers playing with the ends of my hair. “Oh, that’s so good,” she whispers, on a heady moan.

Those words make my skin sizzle.

My pulse surges.

Her back arches as she moves with me, her eyes fluttering open and closed.

She grabs the back of my head as I thrust, going deeper. Electricity crackles down my spine, radiates across my entire body.

“Yes, I like it deep. Love that,” she says.

I follow her every order, only too happy to obey her directions. “What else do you like?” I rasp out.

“Your arms around me. The way you stare at me. Your voice,” she says, then on a long, deep thrust, she groans wantonly.

They say that sex is like riding a bike. That you just hop back on and you never forget.

Whoever came up with that saying is stupid.