Jump.
“I know,” I whisper, then I thread my fingers through his hair, curling them around his head, loving the feel of him. I guide him to my thigh, directing him.
He lets out a shuddery breath, then presses a ghost of a kiss on my bare leg.
I gasp.
The feel of his lips is extraordinary. The touch of his hands is utterly erotic. He shifts from cupping my ass cheeks to squeezing and kneading, bringing me closer.
And, like that, we cross the line of friendship.
We vault over it as he kisses my thigh, my hip, and moves up my belly. His lips travel across my skin, turning me liquid, transforming me into a molten woman.
He reaches my breasts, kissing the swell of one, then the other. When he arrives at my neck, his hands are on my waist, and his lips caress the hollow of my throat.
I shudder, murmuring, gasping all at once.
I’m in another realm, where passion rules the night and choices narrow to one—the choice is touch.
He kisses my neck, my jaw, the shell of my ear, his trim beard rasping deliciously across my skin. Then he stops, plants his palms on the wall behind me, and meets my eyes. I’ve never seen someone look at me the way he does. The intensity, the desire is almost too much.
“Kiss me,” I whisper, desperation coloring my tone.
“I want to kiss you all night long,” he says. Then his lips meet mine, and I am lost—completely lost in the sensation.
In the brush of his lips, the feel of his body, the power of his kiss.
He’s not soft or gentle. He’s all man, all hunger, and he kisses me like I’m the most succulent dish he’s ever tasted. He seals his mouth to mine like he owns me, like he already knows the taste of me.
Like he wants me with a wild desperation.
Looping my hands into his hair again, I thread my fingers through the strands, playing with the ends.
He sighs against my mouth, his body trembling, and I smile inside, knowing he likes how I touch him.
I want him to. I want him to like everything I do. To feel everything I feel. Lowering his right hand, he cups my jaw, brushing his thumb over my chin as he kisses me.
Somehow this takes the kiss even higher, makes it even hotter. It’s like he’s talking with his hands, saying how much he needs me.
I need him just as much.
But I need more than kissing.
So much more.
I break the kiss, grinning as I reach for his hand. He’s quiet, letting me lead. I swallow roughly, then guide his hand down my body. He shudders as I go, and we blaze a trail down my breasts and over my belly. When we reach the top of my panties, he takes over, sliding his hand between my legs.
“Oh hell,” he groans, his eyes squeezing shut as he feels my wetness through the lace, and the little thong too.
His fingers trace lines over me, then he seems to collect himself, issuing a command. “Turn around.”
“Against the wall?”
“Yes.”
I do as I’m told, thrilling at the confidence in his voice, the dirty need.
I turn, and as I go, I slide off the robe so I’m only in my red lace.
“God, yes. You’re so fucking incredible,” he says, then presses his big body against my back.
I gasp when I feel the outline of his erection, thick and insistent.
He slides my hands up the wall, above my head, holding them there with one hand. Then his other arm glides around my body, over my waist and down, his fingers dipping inside my panties, touching me while his lips press against my neck again.
Twin sensations—his fingers gliding between my legs, his lips traveling across my neck.
I moan and writhe, wriggling against his hands, arching into his lips.
He plays with me, rubbing and touching me where I need him most, winding me up, driving me wild.
“You feel spectacular,” he growls, and I do feel that way—because of him. Because of how he touches me. “You’re so fucking soft. So wet.”
I can’t even answer. I don’t know what to say. All I can say is “Yes” as he strokes and thrusts and sends me toward the edge.
His hungry mouth consumes me, kissing my neck fiercely, reverently, as he fucks me with his fingers.
All these sensations collide in a tightening in my belly, an exquisite tension in my legs. Then I break, gasping and crying.
“Oh God, oh God, yes. Oh my God.”
I fall apart with him, regretting nothing. Only wanting more.
When I come down from the high, I turn around, my legs like jelly, my brain high on dopamine. I clasp his cheek. “Will you please take me to bed now?”
His grin is wicked, and I don’t ever want to forget the way he’s looking at me right this second. “I will.”
It sounds like the answer to a prayer.
21
Peyton
I don’t know if this is a vivid dream or heightened reality.
Reality has never felt as blissful, as unexpected, as it does when I stand in front of my king-size bed as Tristan lifts a hand to my chest, his fingers featherlight as he flicks open the front clasp on my bra.
I release a shuddering breath.
I’m getting naked for my friend.
He’s stripping me down to nothing.
I want this so badly, and I’m terrified at the same time.
What does this mean? Where do we go from here?
But I need what’s next.
Need it more than chocolate and lace.
When my bra falls open, my breasts revealed to him, a gust of breath rushes from his lips.
“You’re so stunning,” he whispers, his voice rough as gravel and yet dusted in honey at the same damn time. Like he can’t believe he’s looking at me like this.
But I feel the same about him.
I can’t quite fathom that this strong, gorgeous man who I desperately wanted years ago is undressing me. For several surreal seconds, I’m sure I’m living a fantasy.
“I like the way you look at me,” I say, needing to be sure this is real life, and holy hell, that felt good to say.
He shakes his head, like this is all a dream to him too. He cups my breasts, and we both groan at the same time.
He fondles them but doesn’t linger long. On a fast track for total nudity, his hands skate down my stomach and slip into my panties. He slides them, and the thong, down my legs, his breath hitching as I’m revealed.
Shamelessly, he gazes up and down my body as he helps me step out of the lace.
When he rises, he glides a hand around to my ass, dips his mouth to my neck, and whispers, “Let’s leave your shoes on.”
A tremble radiates through me. “Better to wrap around your hips that way.”
He jerks back, stares at me, then quirks his lips. “You dirty woman.” He presses a kiss to my jaw. “You can leave your shoes on with me anytime, you dirty, beautiful, fucking sexy woman.”
Woman.
He calls me “woman,” not “girl.”
And that turns me on even more.
But what would make me molten is seeing him.
I play with the waistband of his shirt. “My turn to strip you.”
“Don’t let me hold you back.” His tone shifts to playful, his eyes twinkling with mischief. But the lightness fades once more as I lift his shirt, raising it over his head and dropping it to the floor.
The enormity of this choice echoes in my mind and sears in my brain. I’m doing this. We’re doing this.