Damn, what a mess. But what had she expected? The neurotic, grownup geek and the irreverent, tatted-up bad boy. A match made in hell if ever there was one. How could there ever be anything but fascination and strange longing between them?
“Aidan,” she repeated.
His movement startled her. One moment he was tensed and waiting, and the next his hands were on her face and he was pushing her back against the cabinets. His kiss was hard and desperate. His fingers pressed at her throat. She was shocked, but not afraid. Her hands curled in the front of his shirt.
As quickly as he’d struck, Aidan pulled back, hands still clamped to her jaw. His eyes darted across her face; he sucked in a huge breath. He wanted to say something, she could tell.
“Just kiss me again,” she whispered, “and we’ll pretend I never said it.”
“Yeah.”
It was gentler this time, but no less fervent, the hot stroke of his mouth against hers. He was good at this, and had to know it. He plied her with his lips and slow surges of his tongue until she was liquid and grasping at his shoulders.
His hands moved down her sides, lingered at her hips a moment, squeezing, and then unfastened her jeans.
“Wait,” she tried to say, but it got muffled in the kiss and he was too wild at this point for logic. “Aidan…”
He skimmed her jeans and panties down to her ankles and dropped to his knees in front of her.
She glanced down at the top of his curly head, breathless, the blood pounding beneath her skin. She was amazed at the speed and accuracy of his movements as he unzipped her ankle boots and removed them as she lifted each foot in turn. In a matter of seconds he had her totally naked from the waist down, her jeans and boots in a little pile off to the side. God, he was a master at this.
“Aidan,” she said again, a reaching, incoherent quality to her voice she couldn’t alter.
“Be quiet,” he told her softly. His hands slid up her bare thighs, bundled the hem of her long sweater.
The air chased across her skin, contrasting sharply with the heat of his palms. She shivered.
She knew what he intended, but it was still a shock when he pulled one of her legs over his shoulder, thrust his head up between her thighs and kissed her sex.
The first velvet sensation almost took her balance. A sound caught in her throat and her hands speared through his hair. Push him away to make the acuteness stop? Or bring him closer?
Closer won.
His hands found her hips and anchored her; he stroked her with his lips and tongue, pushed her harder, gave her no chance to catch her breath.
She was going to fall. She grasped wildly over her head and found a cabinet pull, clutched at it, the position arching her spine, driving her against his ceaseless mouth.
“God.” She cupped the back of his head with the other hand, cradling him there where she needed him.
His fingers flexed, the tips pressing into her skin. A tiny communication.Go for it.
And she did. The last vestiges of absurdity, the hesitation that this was happening in her mother’s kitchen of all places, melted away. Sam shut her eyes, dropped her head back against the cabinets, and let herself fall into the release he was working to give her.
She gasped. His tongue flickered deep one last time.
It was exquisite.
Slowly her leg was lowered, and his hands withdrew. When she opened her eyes he stood in front of her, lips glossy, eyes dilated.
She didn’t recognize her voice, the depth to it. “Take off your shirt.”
His quick grin finished the melting job on her insides as he stepped back and ditched his t-shirt.
Speaking ofexquisite… She took a moment just to stare, eyes tracing over each strong bone, each tight muscle, every intricate detail inked into his skin. The two rivers in the middle of his chest tugged at the storyteller inside her. There were so many more, so many she had to ask about… Later.
She lifted her sweater off and set it on the counter, stepped toward him. “Will you sit down?”
He dropped into a chair immediately, hands coming up to catch her waist as she straddled him. She hadn’t taken her glasses off this time and she could see everything: the stubble on his jaw, the warm chocolate streaks in his eyes, the tension in his chest and throat as he waited, not so patiently, for her to lead the dance.
