She blinks rapidly and looks away. We’re not in sync and I want nothing more than to tell her I love her. That I want her. I want the real marriage and the wife and the kids running through the bluebells that bloom all over the property. I want the day trips to the beach and accomplishing all our dreams. All of them. And I want them with her.
But now isn’t that time, not when uncertainty and fear are sparking from her like a beacon.
So instead I do the only thing I can think of.
I tug her hand harder, forcing her to fall into me, and when she’s close, I grip her hips and pull her over me until she’s straddling me and I’m holding her hips in my hands.
“Don’t you know?” I ask, running my hands up her sides, to her shoulders, down her arms. My intention is to calm her, but as soon as she shivers, my dick takes notice. Pulses and hardens and pushes against my zipper. Damn this girl. She’s everything. “Don’t you know how crazy I am about you?”
It’s the only truth I can give her. Her eyes widen, and she stares back at me, and she opens her mouth, but I don’t let her speak. I press my hands to her jaw, slide my fingers into her hair, and pull her against me until our mouths are fused.
And Jesus. She’s delicious, soft and tense until she melts into me, sliding her tongue against mine, kissing me back with the same softness, the same passion I’m showering on her.
She sighs into my mouth and I swallow her groans, her tiny whimpers that pull my balls tight and light a fire in my spine. I slide one hand from her hair and down her back until I can push up her sweatshirt. Pulling my mouth off hers, I tilt her head to the side and lave the column of her porcelain throat with gentle kisses that make her quiver against me, hips rolling, pressing down where she needs the most attention, and I do nothing to force this further.
I could kiss Teagan Monroe for the rest of my life and never tire of the taste of her or the feel of her skin beneath my hands or the excited, needy sounds she makes when she’s turned on.
“Damn it,” she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulders. She rocks against me and I bite down on her collarbone, on display from the ratty, worn sweatshirt.
I want to see her in it every single damn day.
This woman does things, makes me feel things I never knew I had in me, but she’s dug deep, and if I feel this insane for her in under two weeks, how in the hell am I going to feel in years? Decades?
I might have to chain her up, keep her tied up in my workshop so no one has the opportunity to tempt her away from me.
“Corbin,” she whispers. She’s panting, soft little pants in my ear that drive me insane. Absolutely crazy. “You make me feel things—”
“I know.” Because God, do I know how none of this makes sense, but feels so perfect.
I kiss her and cut her off again and we’re a tangle of fingers tugging on shirts, her hands at my zipper. She lifts off me, hands going to my fly, and she’s ripping my shirt from my waistband, pulling down my zipper, sliding her hand down until I stop her.
“We should go upstairs.”
She buries her head into my shoulder, her breath against my skin burning me from the outside deep down to the heart I didn’t even know I had until this woman waltzed into my life.
“No.” She shakes her head, moves her hand deeper into my pants, and wraps her hot fingers around my shaft.
“Fuck,” I groan, and I’m done for. Her excitement to get her hands on me is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
Still, I fight for the remaining thread of common sense. “I don’t have condoms down here.”
She slides her hand over my dick, cups my balls, and squeezes. “I’m on the pill.”
Four words that should send any man running. They do the opposite with me. With her. With this moment.
It shows the depth of her trust in me, of her feelings for me. It’s all I can do not to bust my nut in her hand before she even frees me from my damn pants.
I groan her name and she responds, “I know. I need you, too.”
I rip off her shirt and unclasp her bra, pulling her nipple into my mouth and sucking before I have her bra straps down her arms.
We’re shifting and adjusting, pushing off clothes and pulling off shirts until we’re skin to skin, mouths fused like we’ve been cemented together, and then her hand is on me, sliding my tip through her center and gathering moisture, and then we’re connected.
Holy hot damn, shit, to hell in a handbasket, the heat of her is glorious.
“Oh shit.” I shudder from the feel of her. Ungloved. All of her, every ridge deep inside, the pulsing heat claiming me. I still her hips, hold her, and push my head against the back of the couch. “Give me a minute.”
“I can’t.” She laughs softly, hips rolling the tiniest degree, unable to still, and damn I love her.
