Sitting on his couch, my makeup worn off, barefoot, and in leggings, I’ve never felt sexier.
“I hope I do.” I stand up and turn around before straddling my legs over his lap. “Because you do the same thing to me.”
He doesn’t say anything.
His gaze drops to my mouth and he stares at my lips for a minute. “Then what are you waiting for?”
His hands reach into my hair, pulling out the ponytail I threw it into while we were axe throwing, and digging his fingers into my scalp, pulling my face to his before pushing his mouth onto mine.
We’ve done a lot of kissing since our first kiss on this very couch, but something feels different about this one. This feels like more. Every time his tongue circles mine, it feels like a promise of what’s to come.
His hips thrust up beneath mine. The bulge in his pants aligns the zipper of his jeans perfectly against the seam on my leggings. He twists my hair around his hand and pulls my head back. My mouth falls open and my breathing speeds up as he moves his hips, hitting that spot with every thrust.
Like the rest of my body, my eyelids feel heavy and opening them is a struggle. But Quinton’s breath is heavy against my throat as our moans begin to mix together. I know that if I don’t see him beneath me as I fall apart, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
I open my eyes and when I do, I’m met with the most beautiful sight in the entire world. Only inches away, Quinton is staring at me like I’m the only person in the entire world. His cocoa eyes are black as he watches me fall apart on top of him. And that’s all I need to let go.
The friction between our bodies is too much to hold back anymore, and it’s like all the heat from our bodies finds its way between my legs and explodes. A scream falls out of my mouth before Quinton’s mouth is back on mine, drinking every sound that I make as my body shakes around him.
“So fucking beautiful,” he rasps out once my breathing has evened out.
I think I should thank him or something, but instead, there’s only one word that comes to my mind. “Bed,” I say. “Let’s go to your bed.”
I don’t have to repeat myself.
Quinton is off the couch, holding me against him as I lock my legs around his waist and he runs down the hallway, kicking open his bedroom door.
He slows down once we’re in his room. His steps are measured and careful as he crosses the space and lowers me onto his bed.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks. “We don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with.”
It’s sweet of him and I appreciate him asking, but I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life.
I roll onto my elbows, taking in his giant height as he looms over me.
Oh yeah. I want this.
Bad.
“Take off your pants.” I reach for the top button of his jeans, eager to see this fine specimen of a man naked. Needing to see it. Maybe needing it more than I need my next breath.
He steps out of my reach, taking over for my hands as he pulls down his zipper and slides the denim down his long, toned legs. I don’t know what I expected, but the reality is still so much better than anything I could’ve imagined. He kicks them to the side and stands in front of me, not moving, like he understands how badly I needed this moment. Like he understands my need to carve every moment of this into my brain.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt. One button at a time, revealing his smooth dark skin, inch by maddening inch, until the shirt is on the floor next to his jeans and he’s standing in front of me in nothing but his black boxer briefs. His body looks like something out of Greek mythology. His muscles aren’t exaggerated, but they are all there. The ridges of his abs, the thick curve of his thighs, and the broad expanse of his shoulders that lead his strong arms, it’s all flawless.
He’s flawless.
He takes a step toward the bed before bending down and reaching for the hem of my shirt. “Your turn,” he whispers before dragging his teeth against my earlobe.
Goose bumps cover my body at the same time my nerves kick in.
Me? Get naked? In front of that? Seriously?!
He must sense my hesitation because instead of waiting for me to do it, he stands back up . . . pulling me with him.
“Don’t make me beg,” he says into the dark room. “I’ll do it, but don’t make me.”
He would beg to see me naked? Not that I’m complaining or anything, but something seems wrong with this scenario.
“I kind of want to see you beg now.” I mean for it to come out as a joke, but I still haven’t quite caught my breath from watching him take off his clothes and from the orgasm on the couch, so it comes out more as a whisper. A request.
And instead of him laughing, he drops to his knees. I try to tell him to get up, but I’ve forgotten how to speak. My brain has gone awry and all of the muscles that just stopped quivering tighten again. He doesn’t even need to touch me. The sight of him, almost naked and on his knees, is enough.
But then he speaks.
“If you had any idea the amount of times I’ve walked into this room and pictured you right in this very spot, you’d think I was crazy.” He curls his fingers into the waistband of my leggings. The scrape of his fingernails against my skin makes me shiver. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You are
