Before Him

But blame, chastisement, and guilt have no place at this moment. Because right now, I need him to kiss me. I need more than dreams and fantasies. I need solidness and touch and real.

The noise he makes as I close the space between us is one of masculine approval. Husky and growly, I can feel it vibrating through me. But it doesn’t sound like a triumph, not as his hold on me tightens, his relaxing into mine almost with relief.

His mouth is warm and more familiar than it ought to be, and the subtle flex of his bicep a sweet, sweet icing on the cake. This is wrong, I think. Even if it feels really good. But those thoughts are fleeting as he presses me back against the sofa, his hand closing the album, gently lifting it from my lap. It’s replaced with a whole lot of Roman as he brings his body on top of mine. I gasp from sheer delight as his weight presses me down, and the sounds I make as his tongue licks into me are nothing short of porn worthy.

“Oh, God. Oh, Roman.” His name is barely more than a breath, and I’m not sure what I want to say. I just know this feels so good and that I need to say his name.

“I know,” he rasps, his fingers drawing a tantalising trail up my arm. He takes my hand and presses it above my head, his body surging against mine. “I feel it.”

It. I feel it too, as I raise my other arm and brazenly widen my legs, offering myself to him, determined to feel everything. To feel all of him. My chest heaves like I’ve been running and he pulls back a little, maybe surprised. No, not surprised because triumph and wickedness lurks in the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck, Kennedy.” His eyes darken as they dip. “This little strip of skin made me want to drop to my knees in the kitchen.” His hand folds around my waist, his thumb caressing the skin above my cut-offs. I whimper, my back bowing from the arm of the couch as he slides my T-shirt upward in tiny increments. “I could eat you up,” he rasps, staring where my skin is revealed. “Just fucking devour you.”

“Make it small bites,” I whisper.

His eyes come up sharp, dancing with delight. He releases a dark-sounding chuckle. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about this?” His hand moves higher, his thumb brushing my nipple over the cotton of my bra. Pleasure pulses through me, and maybe I should be embarrassed at the noises I make, but I can’t be. No one could be embarrassed when this turned on. What is it about being half-naked that seems so much dirtier than being completely naked?

“That sound. I’ve been hearing it in my dreams.” His eyes are so dark and so sincere as he moves my T-shirt so he can watch as he strokes my nipple again.

“No action replays,” I mewl, twisting under him.

“No?” he asks, that tiny word full of challenge the moment before he pulls my T-shirt up and over my head. Though not off my arms, he instead twists it around my wrists. In my head, I see myself replying with sass and attitude, something like, oh, no, you captured me. But my plan dissolves as I find myself bucking against him, crying out as his mouth fastens over the cotton. He sucks wetly, noisily, his teeth then fastening over the hardened bud. I kind of body-pop in response, my reaction graceless and jerky. I guess that’s what happens when you lose your mind a little.

“You all right there?”

I glance down, greeted by a wicked half smile and an obscene flick of his tongue over the thin cotton. As though my answer wasn’t whimpery enough, I get a flash of white teeth as he gives my nipple a taut little tug.

“I just didn’t . . .” Realise? Remember it being this good? I press my hand to his face in lieu of the rest of my answer, his stubble scratchy against my palm.

“Yeah, but you like it.” He stares up at me from under the dark sweep of his lashes.

“I don’t remember you needing so much feedback.”

“Don’t you?”

“My mind is kinda hazy. You probably weren’t even all that good.”

Can a person lunge when they’re already this close? Because that’s what he does as his head drops. My body stretches beneath his as he sets back to his task, his tongue doing such terrible and wonderful things. Languid licks and thorough sucking, he pulls back a little, leaving a wet patch over the thin cotton as well as me squirming beneath him.

My cheeks begin to burn under his attention—under his attentions—as he blows a warm breath over the cooling cotton. I swallow a curse because, oh my God, this is all such a sensory overload. My nipples have never felt so sensitive.