“You’re killing me, Charlie.”
“I’m giving you a chance to help.”
He’s on me in two strides, hands sliding to my waist, mouth hot and claiming as he kisses me again. This timewith no hesitation, no pauses, no stall doors or sisters or snowstorms in the way. Just us.
My fingers dive under his shirt, dragging it up his back, and he peels it off without breaking the kiss. We stumble back toward the bed, lips locked, breaths ragged, and it feels like we’ve been building toward this moment since the second I drove into that damn flood.
I press my hands to his chest and give a little shove, guiding him down until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks up at me like I just hung the stars, hands still gripping my hips.
I straddle him slowly, dragging my body against his, and whisper, “Still think I’m gonna be hell on your self-control?”
He grins, eyes blazing. “No question about it.”
Sam’s hands stay tight on my hips, his grip firm but reverent, like he’s still trying to convince himself I’m real. I shift my weight forward, straddling his lap completely, and the groan that rumbles up from his chest makes heat pool low in my belly.
His mouth finds mine again, urgent and hungry, and I meet him kiss for kiss. Tongue gliding against his, my breath catching when he bites my bottom lip and tugs just enough to make my toes curl.
His hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt—hisshirt, really—and when they meet bare skin, he curses under his breath. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”
“Nope,” I whisper, breath hot against his mouth. “Left my bra drying in the bathroom.”
He growls.Actually growls. The shirt comes off in one swift motion, and he leans back to look at me like I’m something he’s about to break open and worship all at once.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, hands sliding up to cup my breasts.His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I gasp, arching into his touch.
“You’re unreal,” he says, voice low, thick. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
“Oh,” I breathe, grinding my hips down against the bulge straining beneath his jeans. “I think I’ve got averygood idea.”
His hands drop to my ass, gripping me tight as he rolls his hips up to meet mine—slow, hard, precise.
I moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole.
Clothes come off in frantic pieces. His shirt first, then his jeans, scattered somewhere across the room. He pulls my panties down with care, even though we both know there’s nothing left to save, not when they’re soaked through, clinging to my skin.
He kneels on the bed and urges me back until I’m lying against the pillows. His eyes drag over me slowly, devouring.
“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “Let me?”
I nod, breathless. “Yes. Please.”
He doesn’t waste time. He lowers himself between my thighs and presses a kiss to the inside of one, just above my knee, then higher. Another, and another, until I’m squirming, fingers tangling in the sheets.
And then his tongue drags through my folds, slow and deliberate.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, hips jerking, thighs tightening around his shoulders.
He groans into me, tongue circling my clit before sucking it between his lips, and I cry out, fingers fisting in his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. He eats me like he’s memorizing every gasp, every tremble, every sharp exhale.
When I come, it’s like a wave crashing through me. It’s hot and devastating. I arch off the bed, choking out his name, thighs trembling around his face.
He kisses my inner thigh, my hip, my stomach on his way back up.
“Still think you don’t need a nap?” he teases, voice wrecked.
“Only if you’re the pillow,” I whisper, still panting.
He grins, kissing me again, and I can taste myself on his lips. It only makes me hungrier.
