Dance With Me (With Me in Seattle 12)

“I had a dream about you,” I whisper, watching every move he makes. “And when I woke up, I worked myself to orgasm.”

He’s standing directly in front of me now, but not touching me.

“While thinking of me.”

“Yes.”

He sighs and reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear.

“That might be the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Ever?”

“Ever.”

I want him closer. I want him to step between my legs, rip my tiny shorts in half, and have his way with me right here in the kitchen.

“You’re thinking dangerous thoughts,” he murmurs.

“Oh, yeah,” I agree with a slow nod. “Lots of them. But something tells me fucking me here on the counter isn’t in your plans.”

He hangs his head, a stream of swear words coming out of his sexy mouth, and it makes me laugh. When he looks at me again, his face is taut with strain and regret.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t take it there for a while. I want us to get to know each other better before we go to bed together.”

“Good plan.” I nod as if it makes total sense. “Of course, having sex is just another way to get to know each other. And I promise I’ll text you in the morning, so you don’t feel . . .”

“Feel what?”

“Cheap? Unwanted? Dismissed?”

“I did feel all of those things.”

I cup his cheek and urge him closer.

“You’re none of those things, Levi, and I deeply regret making you feel that way. It won’t happen again.”

His hand mirrors mine. He cups my cheek and rubs his thumb back and forth.

“Starla.”

“Yes.”

“What are you wearing under these ridiculous excuses for clothes?”

A naughty smile flirts over my lips. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Fuck.”~Starla~

He steps closer, closing the small gap between us, and kisses my forehead then down my nose and over to each cheek. The kisses are light and soft and lull me back into a sweet haze of lust.

I purr. That’s the only way to describe it. It’s not a moan or a groan. It’s a freaking purr, and Levi is the only person in my life who’s ever made that noise come from my body.

“You smell amazing,” he whispers as he kisses my earlobe and then just below it on the soft skin of my neck. “And I love this spot, right here.”

It’s just like my dream. Levi places a wet kiss on my neck, then tugs the skin between his teeth, not biting hard enough to leave a mark.

Not that he’s above that. I had bite marks on my ass for a week after our night together weeks ago.

It was fantastic.

I drag my foot up the back of his leg, urging him closer. My skin is on fire, wanting nothing more than for us to be naked together, moving in harmony. I can hear the music of the sex we have together in my head, and it’s heady.

Intoxicating.

“Jesus, you’d tempt a saint,” he murmurs, tugging the strap of my tank down my arm, exposing the top of my breast. “Your skin is so damn soft.”

I bury my fingers in his hair, delighted when he kisses lower, exposing my bare breast and pulling the hard nipple into his mouth.

“Yes,” I cry, enthralled by the way he feels against me. There’s a little stubble on his face, leaving a light burn on my skin. His finger pushes the fabric of my denim shorts aside and plunges inside me, sending sparks shooting through my whole body. My legs lock around his thighs, and he grins against me before looking up into my eyes.

“You’re so damn wet,” he says.

“Shocking,” I say, then gasp when he adds another finger. “Oh, Lord, that’s good.”

“So tight.” He eases me closer to the edge of the countertop but holds me steady so I can’t fall. “I need more access to you.”

“You can have all the access you want.”

With two fingers still inside me, he presses the heel of his hand against my clit. And that’s all I can take. I fly over the edge of insanity, soaring high as the orgasm consumes me, shattering me completely.

He peppers my skin with kisses, crooning soft words that I can’t make out over the rushing in my ears, but it feels damn good.

Maybe better than I’ve ever felt in my whole life.

“Better?” he asks.

“Whoa,” is all I can say.

“Are you steady?”

I frown up at him. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

He turns away from me to wash his hands in the sink, and I’m confused.

“We’re done?”

He sends a glance my way over his shoulder but finishes washing up without a word. Finally, while he wipes his hands dry, he turns and leans his hips against the counter opposite of me.

“I think we are, yes.”

“But you didn’t—”

“I’m fine,” he says but then cringes. “Okay, I’m not fine. But I’ll live.”

I feel completely rejected. Embarrassed. No, mortified is a better word.