Lost In Us (Lost 1)

I don't think the breeze is at fault.

James's hand slides to my hip, and then to my panties—the only piece of fabric I still have on. I mirror his movement, my hand pulling at the waistband of his boxers, and then… God. Desire slams through me as I palm his erection. Hot and huge. He chokes on his next breath, and in one swift move, removes my panties.

No. He didn't just remove them. He ripped them apart, accentuating the hunger so deep in my core that it's almost painful. His hot, heavy breaths send ice-cold, shattering shivers through me, as his tongue nuzzles at my nipple, while his fingers stroke my folds, slow and teasing.

I moan deeply when they touch my clit, arching my back.

"James," I gasp, digging my nails in his arms, trying to pull him up, so I can kiss him. I need more of this. More of him.

He rises abruptly, then urges my knees apart, spreading my legs. Fisting my hair, he pulls me into a fierce kiss.

And then he thrusts inside me. Raw and hard and filling.

Devastating. I moan in his mouth, his own groan reverberating across his chest. I press my hips to him, and then the back and forth dance begins. He keeps his moves deliberately slow, spreading relief and desire through every nerve, making my toes curl and my insides scream. I grab his backside with both hands, pushing him harder against me, opening my legs wider. He groans against my shoulder, biting me, his nails digging in my thigh. The clamping of our hips becomes faster. More urgent. The moans blow up into screams and roars, the woods around us amplifying the splash of our pleasure. My breath catches as I feel it starting to build inside me.

The explosion.

It starts as a pulsation deep inside me—at my most intimate spot. But every thrust, every hot breath of his on my skin causes my body to succumb further to the deluge of quivers wracking through me. My veins carry the electric jolts to every corner, every cell of my body.

"Please," I beg, burying my head in his neck, my cheek caressing his moist skin. The sweet smell of sweat on his neck sends me over the edge.

"Serena, God," he cries, arching back his neck, plunging inside me with a brutality I welcome. I grab the blanket with both fists, pulling at it with all my might as a thousand flutters of relief consume me.

I swear loudly when I open my eyes.

"Good morning to you too, sailor," James shouts.

"Will you keep your voice down?" I bury my head under the pillow. "I've got the most horrible migraine."

"It's called a hangover around here. And it won't get better if you hide under the sheets. Come on, it's past noon."

"Great," I mumble, throwing the pillow away, and forcing myself in a sitting position. I pull the sheets all around me, because I am completely naked. James stands, leaning on one of the bedposts, dressed in shorts and nothing else, staring at me. And even though the creamy, transparent curtain obscures him somewhat, I can see that he looks wide awake. Beautiful. Stunning. I, on the other hand, feel like a bulldozer ran over me. I bet I look exactly like that, too. It was early morning when we returned

to the room after watching the sunset.

"Can you pass me the backpack?" I ask. He doesn't budge, folding his arms on his chest, observing me with a smile. "What?"

"Nothing."

He unhitches himself from the bedpost and walks toward the glass doors where the backpack is. I steal a glance at myself in the oval mirror and swear again—this time not out loud. My mascara is smeared all around my eyes; my hair is a downright mess, sticking out in every direction. I try desperately to tame it, running my fingers through it, but this only seems to make it worse. I look like an electrocuted raccoon. Suddenly, I remember Jess's theory about the "kiss of the witch": the magical process through which a girl wakes up in the morning, only to find herself looking like a witch instead of the princess she was when she went to bed. The chances of this happening increase exponentially, the hotter the guy next to her is. It must be avoided at all cost for the guy to see her like this, either by waking up before him and sneaking in the bathroom to freshen up, or by keeping emergency toiletries and a makeup bag under the bed. Otherwise, the guy will bolt faster than a witch on a broomstick.

Since I have no such emergency bag, I weigh my chances of sneaking to the bathroom without James realizing. As he tosses the backpack in front of me, sitting on the edge of the bed, my chances plummet somewhere below zero. So I keep my head bent so he can't see my eyes, searching in the backpack, hoping he already forgot about my second-rate impersonation of a raccoon.

I find my phone charger in the backpack, along with some books—for the courses I'll have on Monday. How thoughtful of Jess to pack them, too. I slosh through the clothing, enough for an entire week it seems, not just the weekend, hoping to feel the emergency bag. She must have packed it too. Nothing.

"Why are you keeping your head bent like that?" James asks.

"Umm…"I bite my lip. "I'm just searching for something in here."

His fingers slide under my chin, lifting my head.

"I don't want you to see me looking like a raccoon," I admit.

He bursts out laughing, guffaw after guffaw bubbling out of his chest. "Why? You're the loveliest raccoon I've come across. You look just perfect."

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not," he says, suddenly serious. "I like to watch you wake up. I…" Inching closer to me, his fingers trail up and down on my cheek, "I want to watch you wake up every morning for the rest of my life."