He steps into me. Cups the back of my neck and tips my face up to his—and kisses the ever-loving hell out of me. He has a variety of kisses—quick, long, soft, hard, deep, questing, scorching, and any combination of them all. This one is…everything. It steals my breath and gives it back at the same time, sends heat swirling through me, lips to belly to sex. It makes my hands tremble and my pulse flutter.
I feel his hands moving—tugging the hair tie free and tossing it blindly in the direction of the bed, then feathering through my curls to loosen the braid until my hair is loose and probably wildly voluminous. Then, those hands curl up into my hair against the scalp, fingertips massaging, then raking through the locks. He breaks the kiss for a moment, eyes piercing mine, assessing me for demurral. All I am capable of is looking back at him, totally overwhelmed. I feel too much. I need too much. It’s an overload of emotion and need, a manic flux of erotic lightning in my blood and muscles helixed around a soul bond, a heart-match, a sense of unity with the man towering over me, making me feel safe, looking at me with such need that it makes my knees turn to jelly.
I swallow hard, blink, squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry, I…I’m just…I want you, but I’m—”
He shakes his head, touching my lips with a forefinger. “Hush.” He nips my lower lip. “I got you. You don’t gotta do a damn thing but stand there and let me worship you, Nik.”
“Worship…” I whisper. “I…I want that.”
“Then all you gotta do is let me give it to you.”
He nuzzles his forehead against mine, and then his lips descend to the side of my neck. Tongue dips against skin, tasting. My breath stutters in my throat. Fingers find skin between shorts and sleeveless cotton button down, tease, trace. Another kiss, to the divot at the base of my throat. I tip my head back, offering, begging. He kisses up my throat and back down, and his fingers work the buttons of my shirt, nimble and sure. The blouse drapes open, and his palms skate over my shoulders to brush it off, and it flutters to the floor.
A seagull caws, out on the water, and is answered by another. The wind moves and twists and flurries, warm, carrying a hint of salt.
His lips move to my chest, touching a freckle here, a freckle there in delicate little kisses. His palms scrape over the skin at my sides, my belly, around to my back. Teasing down my spine. Molding over my shoulders. Skipping the bra strap, down to the edge of my shorts. Around again to my belly, palm flat, fingers trailing. Kisses sloping down one breast to the cup edge, then over to the other breast. One finger drags a hot line over my shoulder, nudging the strap off. Then the other side, and my breasts descend under their own weight without the support. Chance kisses that tender no-man’s-land that’s not quite chest, not quite shoulder, just beside my underarm and just above my breast. Apparently, that’s an erogenous zone, because my pulse quickens until my breath catches in my throat, and my hands reach out to balance myself against him.
He rumbles in his chest, a smile curving his lips against my flesh—and he kisses there again, now with his tongue flickering wetly, teasing, hot. Then, the other side, mirroring. My lungs are stuck, mouth hanging open. And then, without warning, he flicks open my bra. It slides off, drooping between us, catching where my hips press against his. My bare breasts brush his chest, sensitive, hardened nipples against his smooth hard muscle. He leans back a couple inches, letting the bra hit the floor, his gaze hungrily soaking up the vision of me, topless for him.
“Fuck, you’re incredible.” He gives me no chance to respond, palms rubbing up my belly to catch my breasts.
He lifts them, hefting their weight, thumbs rolling over my nipples, dragging a gasp from me—lightning sizzles in my veins at his touch. And then his mouth is there, right where I didn’t know I needed it, suckling around a nipple while his huge gentle hand kneads the other. He kneels in front of me, mouth moving to my other breast, nipping and licking and sucking my nipples until I throw my head back and moan, gasping. He unbuttons my khaki shorts, tugs down the zipper. Yanks the shorts off to pool around my ankles. I grasp his shoulders for balance—he pauses to gaze up at me between my breasts.
“Chance,” I murmur, licking my dry lips. “Please.” I have no idea what I’m asking for; I can only hope he knows what I need, because I don’t.
He does.
Fingers curl in the elastic of my underwear, pulling them down, rolling them over my hips and ass; they catch where my thighs rub together, and then they’re down with my shorts. I kick the puddled bundle of clothing aside, and I’m naked for Chance.
He sits on his knees and leans back, hands resting on his knees, and just looks at me. “Holy fucking hell, Annika.” His voice is thick, brows furrowed. He shakes his head, as if overcome with awe. “You’re fuckingperfect.”
“I’m not.” I hold myself steady on his shoulders. “I’m really not.”
“You are to me.” He shuffles closer, and my breasts hang in front of his face. He nuzzles them, and then kisses them—not to arouse, but to lavish affection. “Perfect.”
He moves his mouth lower, down my centerline to my belly button, kissing, kissing, hunching lower until his mouth ghosts over the seam of my sex. Then, his tongue flits out against my clitoris, sending a wrenching jolt of electric heat through me—his lips seize my sex, suctioning around my clit, tongue circling mercilessly. I cry out, fingernails digging into his shoulders.
“Perfect.” It’s a grumbled whisper.
His hands skate up the outside of my legs to my hips, clutching there, and then he gently but firmly pivots me in place so I’m facing away from him. I can’t imagine what he’s going to do next; he presses a kiss to my lower back, his hands framing my buttocks. Again, my breath catches as he slides his lips over the swell of one cheek, kissing, kissing, kissing. The other side, then.
“Perfect.” Another rumbled whisper.
He twists me in place again to face him once more, and then surges to his feet, scoops me up in his arms and takes one long step, one knee in the bed as he bends to lay me down. His mouth claims mine, eyes blazing. “You—are—perfect.”
My eyes burn, vision blurring. “Goddammit, Chance,” I breathe.
No quarter, no mercy. He cups my breasts, squeezing them together inward and kisses each nipple slowly and with his tongue moving in deft thrilling wet circles, then releases them to bounce away to either side, kissing down my torso to my sex. No buildup, just his mouth devouring my pussy. A finger slides over my seam, through the lips, and delves into me. I gasp, spine arching as I’m filled by his finger and licked by his tongue. I cry out, heels scrabbling at the quilt. He drives an arm under me, one hand lifting me by the ass, pressing me against his hungry mouth.
Right to the edge then, hovering at the cusp of ecstasy, lights flashing behind my eyes, my belly clenching, sex pulsing and weeping, spine bowed upward, heels digging into the mattress—my knee protests the use of it but I barely feel it.
And then his finger is gone and his tongue is lazily swiping up my nether lips, a tease of a lick, barely flicking against my clit—again—and again—and again, each touch of his tongue to my sensitive, throbbing center a tease, a taunt.
“God, Chance,please!” I whimper.
“Please what, baby girl?” His words are a murmur against my flesh.
“Stop teasing me,” I breathe.
