“I swear, if that’s you, Dell, I’m going to hit you,” I murmur to myself. Leaving the water running, I wrap a towel around myself and head for the door, grumbling obscenities under my breath.
I yank open the door, fully expecting it to be Dell, slinking back for a handout. “Dell, goddammit—”
It’s not Dell, and my words die in my throat.
It’s Thai.
He’s taken his shirt off, and he’s more incredible than even my fantasy could have imagined. He’s ripped. Powerfully built, with razor-sharp abs and massive, anvil-hard pecs. Not an ounce of fat on him. He’s still glistening with sweat.
A bead trickles down over his pec. I’m seized with an absurd but powerful urge to lick the sweat off him.
“What—” I have to swallow hard and try again. “What do you want.” It doesn’t come out as a question, but rather flat, robotic, without infection.
He just blinks. His eyes rake over me, head to toe. I didn’t bother actually tying the towel around me—I’m just pinning it mostly in place with my armpits, since I had assumed it was Dell.
His throat bobs.
He can’t bring his eyes up to mine.
“Thai,” I snap. “I thought I made myself clear—leave me alone.”
“You did,” he says, his voice low, and unsteady. “I didn’t listen.”
“Obviously. Following instructions seems to be hard for you.” I start to close the door. “Goodbye, Thai.”
His foot blocks the door from closing. My mouth opens to protest, but then somehow he’s in my space. Looming over me, massive and hard and radiating heat and smelling of sweat, but not unpleasantly. I don’t know what’s happening, and I suddenly can’t figure out what to do about it. How to stop him. My voice is lodged in my throat. My blood hammers in my ears.
His hands close around my face, fingers behind my jawline and under my ears, thumbs brushing over my lips and then across my cheekbones.
And then he’s kissing me.
It’s not one of those sudden assaults on my mouth that you read about. It’s slow and intentional. He gave me plenty of opportunity to pull away, or smack him, or knee him in the sack. Slow and intentional…and deep, and powerful, and skillful.
This man knows how to kiss.
He’s mastered the art.
His tongue is a symphony against mine, and his lips are an aria on my lips. His kiss works me to a fever, steals my breath and leaves me dizzy.
His body is huge and hard against mine. I feel him, all of him. Chest like a cliff face, abs like an iron washboard, thighs like tree trunks…and the thick ridge between us, at my belly. Lined up flush with my own sex, as if we’d been made to fit. He would barely have to dip at the knees to enter me.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t need to breathe. Slow, and thorough.
I can’t help but respond—his desire is obvious even without the evidence pressed against me. It’s obvious in the way he kisses me. In the way his hands roughly cradle my face. In the way he towers over me, hunched to reach down to my mouth with his. It’s in the growl I feel in his throat and chest as he kisses me and kisses me.
My arms reach up, curl around his neck. My hands slide into his hair, and I’m heedless, in the moment, of the fact that my towel drops away. All that matters in this wild instant is his mouth on mine and his body against my body.
My hands scrape against his shoulders, and then my fingers dig into the meat of his chest. Need is a fury within me. To touch, to be touched. His hands are huge, strong, and rough. They’re like sandpaper on my skin as he rakes his palms over my shoulder blades and down my spine, and he’s got them wrapped around the small of my back, pulling me closer.
I whimper into his mouth.
What sorcery is this? His kiss is a drug—a phrase I’ve heard but never understood. Yet now it’s real—he kisses me and I am high with it, soaring on the wings of chemical, hormonal, physical bliss. I have never neverneverbeen kissed like this, didn’t know it was possible.
He pivots, and I hear my door crash closed with a loud slam and then I feel the wood against my back and his hands clutch my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, gripping hard.
I feel need soaking me.
I’m naked, and I don’t even care.
