Hot & Heavy (Lightning 2)

My legs—hell, my whole lower body—go liquid at the thought, and it’s all I can do to remain upright. I try to hide it, but Shawn sees it. Or maybe he just senses it. Either way, his pupils widen and his breath catches in his throat, as if the sudden molten warmth making its way through my body is also working its way through his.

His fingers slide up from my cameo, skimming the hollow of my throat, the line of my jaw, the curve of my ear. I gasp a little as he gently pinches my earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. Gasp again as he cups my jaw in his large, rough palm and strokes his thumb across my bottom lip. Once, twice, then again and again.

It feels shockingly, incredibly good.

So good that I sway a little where I stand.

So good that I grab on to his shoulders to steady myself…and to feel the heat of his body under my palms.

So good that I lean forward until our bodies are just barely touching from shoulder to thigh.

He groans. It’s a soft, under the breath thing but it’s definitely a groan. His breath starts coming faster, but then again, so does mine as he slowly, slowly, slowly, pulls me forward until I’m standing between the deep V of his legs. As he slowly, slowly, slowly closes the distance between our mouths.

As he slowly, slowly, slowly presses his lips against mine.

Fireworks go off deep inside me. There’s no other word to describe the explosion that shakes me to my core. That has my hands tightening in the silky fabric of his shirt and my body arching against his. That has me pressing my lips more firmly against his and opening my mouth to welcome the dark heat of his.

A part of me—a small part—feels like it’s standing off to the side, gaping at me and what I am currently doing. I’m not the kind of girl to flirt with a guy at a bar, let alone kiss him. Let alone press herself up against him in a desperate bid for more.

But that’s exactly what I’m doing here, and I don’t even feel bad about it. How can I when his mouth, his touch, his body feels so incredibly good pressed against me?

His free hand moves to my hip, and I gasp a little at the unexpected touch—at how good it feels and how warm his hand is. Shawn lifts his head at the sound, his dark eyes searching mine for one long second, two, as if assuring himself that I’m still on board.

I am. I shouldn’t be, but oh God, I am.

I wrap a hand around his neck and tug him close, until our lips once again meet.

He smiles then. I can’t see it, but I can feel the upward curve of his mouth against mine right before he sweeps his tongue along the outside of my lower lip.

Heat sparks deep inside me and I gasp again. But this time, Shawn doesn’t lift his head. Instead he takes instant advantage and delves inside, his tongue stroking sensuously against mine.

He tastes good, like whiskey and honey and warm, sexy man. It’s my turn to moan a little, my turn to explore his mouth. To taste and tease and torment him the way he is so expertly doing to me.

For long seconds, he lets me take the lead. Lets me slide my hands over his shoulders and down his back as I lick my way along the seam of his mouth, the swell of his full lower lip. Then he’s moving his own hand, sliding it from my hip to the sensitive spot on my lower back. I arch my spine at the first touch, and he slides his fingers underneath the hem of my blouse. For long seconds I revel in his touch, in the rough warmth of his palm against my skin—a direct contrast to the gossamer softness of my blouse.

Then he’s moving us down the hall—back, back, back—until I’m flush against the wall of a secluded little alcove and he’s flush against me. I press myself into him, gasping a little at the full body contact. At the heat and the power of his long, muscular body pressed against mine.

He lifts his head, looks down at me with eyes gone black as sin. “Okay?” he whispers even as his fingers stroke gently, inexorably down my back to dip beneath the waistband of my pants.

I should tell him no, should tell him I don’t kiss strange men in the backs of bars, and I sure as hell don’t let them touch me beneath my clothes. But I can’t bring myself to do it, can’t bring myself to say anything more than, “Yes. Please.”

“Please what?” he answers, voice low and dark and wicked. So wicked. It makes me want to be wicked, too, when I’ve always prided myself on being good. Makes me want to be wanton, when I’ve always prided myself on being in control. “What do you want, Sage?”

I don’t answer him. I can’t. The sound of him—the feel and taste and sight of him—has robbed me of my voice and my inhibitions. I pull him closer, arch against him even as I let my head fall back to bare my neck to him in what can only be interpreted as an invitation.

He accepts the invitation, a dark, rumbly sound coming from his chest as he leans down and presses his lips to my collarbone. It feels so good. He feels so good, and it’s been so long since I’ve had a lover, so long since I’ve let a man so much as touch me in any but the most casual ways. The fact that he’s so cautious with me, so careful not to overwhelm me, only makes me want this—want him—more.

Sparks of desire catch fire inside of me at the first slide of his mouth over my skin, making me wet. Making me want.

And that’s before he licks his way to the hollow of my throat.

Before he trails hot kisses up the side of my neck to the delicate skin behind my ear.

Before he nibbles softly on my lobe, his breath burning hot against my skin.

I gasp then, at the unexpected, overwhelming pleasure of this moment—and the unexpected, overwhelming power of him. My hands slide into the dark silk of his hair, my fingers weaving and clutching and pulling at it even as I arch my back to offer him more. And to demand more.

More kisses, more pleasure, more him.