“What?” I ask. “You what?”
He shakes his head, not answering as he so often and so frustratingly does. He just kisses me again. Something in my belly and chest rises, opens. A burn, a flutter. The more his mouth moves on mine, the more I quiver all over, the more I want to kiss and to kiss and to kiss.
And the more I want to know more of what lies beyond the kissing, even if I am afraid.
His tongue slides against my lips, and I open my mouth to him. I taste his tongue, feel a thrill as it touches mine. I give this back, moving my tongue on his, and even dare to slide mine into his mouth, to taste him and touch him with my tongue as our lips slide and twist and angle.
He groans as our tongues move, and this makes me whimper, a soft noise—his groan rumbles through my body, and the quiver becomes a quake.
The hardness behind his zipper hardens further, and something in me responds, an instinct. My center grows warm, and even damp. The more he kisses me, the hotter and wetter it becomes, until I am sure he will know, he will feel it, sense it.
I cannot bring myself to care, even if there is an undercurrent of fear running through me that he will feel how hot and wet I am, and that he will…what? What will he think? I do not know.
His hands grip my knees, tight, hard. And then, when our tongues begin moving together, and he groans, his grip loosens and his hands glide upward. Up my thighs, until he is holding me at the place where my thighs bend and become my hips. Such an intimate touch, his hands there. My heart beats harder, and the heat and wetness only become more, andmore.
I’m gasping into his kiss, breathless from the tumult of sensations, the pound of my heart and the heat in my loins.
And then, oh…and then his hands move again. Upward still. Under my shirt.
Still kissing, mouths moving, seeking, almost warring for position, formore.I give, and I take, he gives and he takes. All tongues and lips, even teeth touching now and then. My hands are in his hair, holding him into the kiss, because I never want to stop. I will not let him.
His hands move.
Touch my flesh. At my belly and sides, his fingers touch. Palms, too. I gasp, breaking the kiss because his touch is so hot and his skin so rough that it burns.
“Anjalee—” he begins.
I press harder against him, until my breasts are crushed flat between us nearly to the point of hurting, and my center grinds against his, and my arms wind around his neck, clinging tight, hard. I slam my mouth over his, kissing himhard.
“Ahhhfuck,” he growls, the end of the curse word muffled as I demand his kiss.
His hands splay on me, against my back and ribs. So large are his hands that when his pinky fingers slide along my lower back near my jeans, his thumb digs under the elastic of my bikini top.
I arch my spine as his hands cover my back, my ribs.
I have never felt so alive. Not even on the back of his motorcycle have I felt this surge of…wildlife. Just a pure, unadulterated freedom. Thrill. Exultation in existence.
His palms shudder over my belly, up to my diaphragm…and then his hands are closing over my breasts.
I gasp, a shrill, shocked breath as lightning sears through me at this touch, so private, so intimate.
He’s gone.
Just like that, he’s gone, across the room. Head bowed, shoulders hunched, breathing hard. He scrapes his hands over his head, ripping his hat off, and he hurls the hat across the room in a violent throw.
“Fuck.” It is a snarl, very much the angry sound of a predator denied a meal.
I am gasping, still. My breasts tingle where he touched me, my nipples so hard they ache. My center, my intimate place…the only word I can find which is appropriate is to say I am an inferno of desire.
For him.
Formore.
And he is on the other side of the room, angry with me.
I slip off the bed and move behind him, but he knows, hears, feels me. Moves away.
“Don’t, Anjalee,” he growls. “You can’t come near me right now.”
