Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“I’ll kill him,” he growls.

My giggle pierces the air. “Then I guess we are.”

“I guess we are …” His voice trails off as he goes to the front. He pauses by the hood and looks at the hill that changed his life. Then he looks at me and grins. It’s that look, one filled with a soft strength, that changed mine.

Thirty-Three

Mariah

The door to my house swings open. Lance is behind me, his hand on the small of my back. I don’t think he’s broken contact since he got back in the car.

We step inside and he closes the door behind us; the Mandarin orange candle I burned last night scents the air.

“Two things,” Lance says, taking a moment to take in my living room. “Make it three.”

“Okay.”

“First, let’s reiterate we’re exclusive. No apps, no coaches, no random men or women in the grocery store that ask for our numbers. Cool?”

I grin. “Does that happen to you often?”

“Look at me. Of course, it does,” he winks. “It’s actually never happened to me there, but I wanted to cover all our bases.”

“I can agree to that.”

“Good. Number two,” he says, sauntering over to the window. His muscles work under his shirt, the light hits it just perfectly so I can see every ripple in the fabric. “We have to be honest. Maybe that’s a normal requirement in a relationship,” he cringes, “but with the divorce rate as high as it is in this country, I’m not sure.”

“I’ve been honest with you. It’s you who’s been the little omit-ter.”

“No omissions,” he says, turning around. The sincerity on his face slays me. “We have to make this work and ground rules at the beginning seem the smartest way to go.”

“What’s number three?” I ask.

“That I can touch you any time I want,” he grins, stalking towards me.

He lugs me against him, his body as solid as a rock. His kiss is slow, methodical, his breath hot against my mouth. He works his tongue across my bottom lip and I melt in his arms.

“Hey,” I giggle, as he presses kisses across my jaw. “I have a thing too.”

“What’s that?” he asks against my throat.

I pause to release a moan as his hands grip the globes of my ass. “I’m not sure you’re going to like this one,” I tease.

He jolts me forward, pressing a wet, loud kiss to my lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are wild, just a few seconds from losing control.

“What is it?” he asks.

Stepping back, feeling his gaze scald my skin, I lift the hem of my shirt over my head. His eyes get darker, broodier, as I get wetter. I’m tempted to stop all of this and just race into my bedroom, knowing he’d follow, but I enjoy this feeling a little too much. Besides, the rest will come soon enough.

“Well,” I say, slipping off my shoes and hooking my thumbs under the waistband of my sweatpants. “Since we’ve been honest with each other and we’re firmly in a word ending in -ship,” I say, “I’d like an agreement we don’t use condoms.”

He closes the distance between us in a half a second, picking me up before my pants are even off my feet.

“Lance!” I giggle, my legs thrown across his arms. “Stop it.”

“You’re driving me crazy on purpose.” He kisses me as he heads down the hall, my feet knocking a sconce off the wall on the way. He doesn’t care. Neither do I.

I’m tossed on the bed. The pillows bounce along with me as I look up at him. He stands next to the bed, his clothes coming off as quickly as he can possibly shed them.

“Is that okay?” I ask, working the latch of my bra free. “I really like the feeling of your cock sliding into me.”

He crawls across the bed, his shoulders flexing. My mouth goes dry as I part my legs so he can hover over me.

“I hope you like it,” he whispers. “I’m going to be sliding into you for a long fucking time.”

Raising my hips, I lock my heels at the small of his sculpted back. “What are you waiting for?”

He presses into me, filling me inch-by-inch. This time it’s different.

It’s not simply a give and take of pleasure, an exchange of satisfying sensations like it was before. It’s not a kiss here, a stroke there, a lick for good measure—a “I need you right now” type of thing that has a start and an end.

As he touches me, and not just on my skin but rather in places untouchable by the hand, he reaffirms the things he’s told me, the things he’s all but promised me.

He shows me he thinks I’m beautiful, tells me I’m worthy. Not just of him, but of the one part of yourself you can give to only one person—his love. He caresses me tenderly and slams into me without mercy, owning me and building me and giving me the freedom to explore who I am in the safe bounds of his arms.