He does. Fast. Skillfully. Like he’s practiced on the idea of me.
The way he breathes when he sees me topless makes my stomach flip.
“Annabelle…” His voice cracks in the middle. “Jesus.”
I grab his jaw and pull him in. “Touch me.”
He obeys instantly, his hands cupping me, mouth closing around my nipple, tongue teasing until I arch so sharply it almost hurts.
I thread my fingers in his hair. “Bryce…”
He pulls back just far enough to say, “Lie back.”
I do.
And he kneels.
And suddenly the way he looks at me is not hungry, it’s reverent.
He palms my calf, slides his hand up my thigh, slow, hot, deliberate. When he reaches the button of my jeans, he glances up.
“You know,” he murmurs, “These jeans make your ass look so hot I get hard just looking at you in them. I was distracted on the ice when I saw you. You wearing these tonight should be illegal.”
“Break the law.”
He swears softly and unbuttons them, tugging denim down my hips. I lift to help, inhaling when the cool air hits my skin.
He drags my jeans off with my panties and sits back on his heels like he needs a second to take me in.
“You look…” He shakes his head. “Fuck.”
I open my legs just enough to tease him. “Come here.”
He doesn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he lowers his mouth to my inner thigh and kisses...slow, lingering, wicked. My breath stutters.
“Bryce.”
“Yeah?” His breath ghosts over where I’m aching. “Something you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“I do,” he says, and then his mouth replaces his voice.
One long, slow stroke of his tongue.
My hips jerk.
He slides his hands beneath them to hold me still. “Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
Sweetheart.
My brain shorts out.
He licks me again, deeper this time, and I whimper out a string of syllables that might once have been words.
He groans like he’s the one being touched. “You taste unreal.”
