“Be nice.”
“Not to him,” he nearly growls and all amusement fades. “Did he kiss you?”
I stare at him for a moment, and he stares straight through me. I shake my head and I feel the tension escaping his body. His forehead drops onto mine with an exhale.Relief.
My lips part at the closeness of his, like an instinct. My lips know his, feeling them close by and remembering the breath that comes from between them.
“Christian,” I breathe, a split second before his lips are on mine. Fitting together like we were crafted for each other, tailor-made.
I forget the drinking and him leaving and his parents and the heartbreak. I only remember how good we are at this, all the ways we fit, and how much he loved me then.
He growls when I moan into his mouth, and I stagger backfrom how hard and deep he’s kissing me. He catches me with a hand around my back and his hand wraps around my throat.
We stumble back into the house, the door closing behind us. “God, Lana.”
I gasp when the edge of the entry table digs into my lower back. Christian wipes away everything that is on the table and he lifts me onto the wood. My dress hikes up around my waist as my legs spread to make space for him between them. “Christian.”
His hand angles my head, exposing my throat for him and his lips. I arch and my legs wrap around him, the heels digging into his back. Christian’s mouth comes back to my lips and it is a sloppy and messy war of tongues, and my nails are digging into his arms.
I love him in t-shirts. As hot as he is in suits, nothing will ever be hotter than my Christian in jeans and a t-shirt.
His hands run up and down my body beneath the dress, stopping at my ass to squeeze tightly and pull me to the table's edge. I feel him hard between my legs and I moan, the sound only pulling me closer to his hips.
I bite at his lip and breathe, “You aren’t allowed to kiss me.”
“No?”
I shake my head, whimpering as I kiss his Adam’s apple. His pulse, his jaw, under his ear. I kiss him everywhere I can reach before I go back to his lips and take everything that’s mine.Mine.
“Stop kissing me then,” he dares me.
I shake my head and pull him close with my hand curved at the back of his neck.
“Don’t ever stop fucking kissing me,” he growls.
“Okay,” I gasp.
Stop kissing him! Be angry! Push him away! Be a shark!
His hands gripping my ass lift me and he walks through my house like he’s been here a thousand times. He wavers a bit, looking around while I kiss his neck, until he sits back on my couch.
I fall into him and my lips latch on to his again, and, for some reason, I think about our old couch in our first apartment together. My body burns from the memories of him making love to me on that couch, all the ways he killed me with orgasms that left me breathless and boneless. All the ways he brought me back to life with the way he kissed me—my lips, my neck, my breasts, my thighs, between my legs.
“I fucking love this dress.”
I giggle, breathless. “Yeah?”
He chuckles, breathless. “Yeah.”
Take it off,are the words I don’t say, but the way his hands run over my skin in reverence and adoration is enough.
Then the images of the ways I have found him drunk and passed out on our old couch invades me, and it drags me to a war I don’t want to be in anymore.
Christian is still kissing me like he might die if he pulls away, and I am slowing us down—bringing us back to the reality of him living in his car in my driveway, and my heartbreak.
I steal one last kiss, long and soft, and pull away breathless. His brows pinch and his coffee eyes tell me everything I already know.
“Chri—”
