“Dave from the diner. Dad-pants Dave. He hit on me for ages. And yes, Iactuallythought about it. A fifty-year-old guy in cargo shorts during winter. At least he noticed me.”
I kiss her again. Harder. Claiming. Mine. Not Dave's. Not anyone else's. Mine.
"I want you so much," she whispers. "And I hate that I want you."
I trail my mouth down her throat, tasting her skin. "Why hate it?"
"Because you're exactly what I've been drawing. Dreaming about." Her hands slide up my chest, fingers splaying across my heartbeat. "You're danger and death and everything I shouldn't want. Everything common sense says to run from."
"But you do want it."
"Fuck yes." The word is barely a breath. She drops to her knees. The movement is fluid, as if she's been thinking about it, planning it. Her eyes never leave mine. "So fucking much it scares me."
Her hands reach for my belt. My breath catches.
"Let me show you how much." She unzips me, fingers steady. Confidence floods her now, each movement decided and intentional. "I'm ready for the next step."
Steps. Right. We had steps. Some plan to take this slow, to ease her into this life, this world. What step are we on now? Five? Six? Have we moved past steps into uncharted territory?”
"Completely lost count," I manage, reaching down to pull her shirt over her head. The fabric slides off, revealing skin I want to mark. To claim. To keep.
She stands long enough to let me strip off her shirt, then kneels again. Her hands reach behind her back, unclasping her bra. She lets it drop to the floor and looks up at me from where she's kneeling—topless, eyes full of want and determination. "Then we improvise."
The sight of her saying those words from down there makes warmth spread through my chest.
She pulls her messy hair into a ponytail.
"New tricks? You're learning how to?—"
Before I can finish, she takes me in her mouth. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just heat and pressure.
I groan, my hand automatically fisting in her hair. The ponytail wraps around my fingers. "Fuck. Where did you learn…?"
She pulls back just enough to speak, her lips still touching the head. "Lots of books and imagination. Relax." Then she takes me deep again, deeper than before.
Relax? I can barely stand. My legs are weak. The sensations are so intense—her tongue finding places that make my knees quake, her mouth warm and enthusiastic that show just how much she's been fantasizing about this.
My mind blanks, overwhelmed with sensation. With her.
That tongue. The way she moves. The pressure and the suction and the heat. She's learning what I like in real time, adjusting and experimenting. When I groan, she does more of whatever caused it. When my grip tightens in her hair, she goes deeper.
She's good at this. Too good for someone who claims to have only been with boring men. Those books must have been very fucking detailed.
I'm close. Too close. Embarrassingly close. This fast?
No, I can’t. Not yet.
My grip tightens in her hair. "Lila?—"
She doesn't stop or so much as slow down. If anything, sheincreases the pace, like she wants this. She wants me to lose control.
I can feel myself losing it, the pressure building at the base of my spine, everything narrowing to this moment, this feeling, this girl on her knees who chose me despite everything.
Fuck.
20
LILA
