Page 64 of Get Me to the Starting Line
I watch as he straightens. Hurt crosses his hard face, but then it’s gone. “Do you want me to go?” he asks carefully.
When I don’t answer, he takes a step towards me.
“Tell me to go,ma têtue.”
That is so unfair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be this fucking sexy and also speak a romantic language. Even if he’s calling me stubborn.
“Leah.” He says my name so softly in his deep, rich timbre, hypnotizing me to the spot as he moves. We’re as close as we can get without touching when he raises an enormous hand and, more gently than I could’ve imagined, drags a finger down the side of my face, landing on my chin.
“Tell me to go,” he whispers, tilting my head with one knuckle. Shivers. My useless arms do nothing but dangle at my sides.
“If you ever blame me for losing again, I swear to god, I’ll—” But my threat is cut off, my mouth suddenly occupied.
His lips crash into mine, and it’s the exact opposite of his touch against my face. There’s no other word for it—heclaimsmy mouth.
With one hand still on my chin, he buries the other in my hair, holding me firmly against him. I fall forward, melting into his body, my hands flying up to brace against his chest as I surge onto my tiptoes so I don’t have to strain my neck so much.
I might’ve lost my balance had he not been prepared to catch me.
The hand on my chin moves to grasp my waist, steadying me. I feel anything but steady at this moment. The kiss is devastating in the best way, hard and insistent.
He nips at my lower lip, causing a gasp to escape my mouth. His tongue is there, chasing away the sting of the bite, and he’s inside mymouth, claiming me deeper. I meet him stroke for stroke, relishing the taste of this man wrapped in mystery.
There’s a fire in my blood, my body alive like it’s never been before. I need to be closer to him. Like our minds are in sync, our mouths stay fused together as Julien slips his hands under my thighs, lifting me up and spinning me around so my body slams against the door.
I briefly think of Mrs. Hastings—she probably heard the thump against the door—but my mind doesn’t stay there for long. The man holding me up will not allow my attention to fall on anything but him.
We break from the kiss, both gasping for air. His mouth moves from my face, down my neck and over my collarbone, tasting and licking, teasing me. My core is pressed against his stomach and my hips move automatically, seeking the friction I desperately need.
He growls into my skin at my movement, my hands threading in his thick hair. His beard scrapes my skin, leaving a trail of delicious pain in the wake of his soft lips. He comes back to claim my mouth again, my hips continuing their search for more.
The hands on my thighs tighten as he adjusts himself, giving me the contact I’m desperate for.
I moan, finding friction, and Julien is there to swallow my sound with his mouth. There’s a rumble in his chest as he moves with me.
“Julien,” I gasp once he frees me, grinding his hips into me. I feel the briefest contact with the very hard length of him before he shifts me away, cursing.
“Fuck,tu es même meilleure que dans mes rêves.” The French spills from his lips, lifting my desire to heights I didn’t know were possible.
“I need more,” I breathe. I may die if I don’t get the right contact. But he silences my plea, ignoring my demand by returning his mouth to mine. My lips are swollen, but I open for him, greedily accepting whatever he gives me.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he orders, releasing my mouth, our heavy breaths mixing. I squeeze my legs around his tree trunk of a torso so he can move his hands. He has me pressed so firmly against the door, I don’t move as he explores my body.
I nip his lip, pulling him back to my mouth, kissing him just as fiercely. His hands play with the hem of my shirt, teasing me before he snakes them under the thin fabric, branding my skin with his touch. They move up my sides, his fingertips grazing the curves of my breasts.
An involuntary moan escapes me, louder than before. Julien curses again, or at least I think he curses—he’s speaking French.
“Tell me to stop,” he says as his lust-filled eyes meet mine. He presses into me and I’m about five seconds from the orgasm I feel building.
“Don’t fucking stop,” I tell him. I beg him. My hips beg him when he still doesn’t move.
A twinkle of amusement flickers in his eyes as he takes in my face, the desperate movement of my body, my swollen lips, probably red and twice their normal size from the scratch of his beard.
“You’re close,” he whispers. It’s not a question.
One of his hands trails down the small gap between us, teasing me, his fingers playing with the band of my shorts. God, I need him.
His finger dips beneath the fabric, scraping against the crease of my thigh. A gasp leaves me. “Julien—”
