I want more. I need more.
I don’t even know what’s happening anymore, only that I can’t stop. Not when everything inside me is screaming for him.
Honeysuckle Grove no longer exists. The only thing I know is the feeling of his tongue. The grip of his wandering hands. The feel of his massive body pressed to mine, those chiseled planes etching their way against my softness, like I’m a piece of wood that’s refusing to yield.
I want him to chisel me into something more.
Something greater.
Something worthy of him.
I tug him closer, my hands on his chest, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt. His lips are sucking on mine now, urgent and demanding.
I want to pull away, I want to scream at him, but my body’s betraying me.
He pulls back again, just enough to look me in the eyes, his forehead pressed against mine, both of us gasping for breath.His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and I can see the struggle there. He’s fighting for the same thing I am.
To stop.
“You don’t get to do this to me, Lo,” he whispers, so close to a growl that it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I don’t have an answer. Don’t have anything to say that makes sense.
“I’m not the one doing this,” I manage, barely a shaky whisper. “You started this. You’re the one who can’t…”
I stop, biting my swelled lip as I struggle to catch my breath. The heat in my chest is unbearable now. Something’s alive inside of me, clawing to get out. I can feel it in every part of me.
Ford’s hands are on me, his lips too rough and relentless, pulling my body further into him. He’s trying to fuse us together. He grips my thighs, lifting me effortlessly, and I let him, wrapping my legs around his waist as if I’ve done this a thousand times before.
There’s nothing graceful about it, though. It’s urgent, frantic. My shirt, still rucked up. My jacket, crooked. His shirt, wrinkled from where I’ve been gripping, and loose from where I’ve been tugging. We’re both racing against time, against something bigger than either of us.
The cool brick wall digs into my back again. But all I feel is Ford. The heat of him. The pulse of him. The frantic rhythm of our bodies moving in sync. Every second races by, but I don’t care.
All I care about is how he makes me feel. How every breath, every touch, every whisper of his lips on mine is a brand I never want to wash away.
“Lo,” Ford groans, his voice thick with a rawness I’ve never heard before.
His mouth is on my neck now. His hips, bucking against my own. His teeth, grazing over my skin, sucking and biting, likehe’s starving for me. The sensation sends a tremor through my body, and I can feel the heat pooling low in my stomach as slick leaks from my panties.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he whispers.
Reverently.
Like I’m something to be worshipped.
I gasp as his lips move lower, nipping at the curve of my shoulder, his hands working at the hem of my shirt with a kind of desperate impatience. He can’t get it up fast enough.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, hands finally tearing the fabric down the middle as if it’s an obstacle he can’t stand.
I don’t even care that I can’t replace it. Don’t care that I don’t have many nice shirts. My heart is a war drum, thundering in my chest, every beat syncing with the pulse of blood rushing between my legs. It’s maddening. I don’t know what I want.
No, scratch that, I knowexactlywhat I want.
It’s him. All of him.
Right here, right now.
Even if it ruins us both.
