Chapter 3
Sarah
Oh my God, I’m kissing Ian Nolan.
That thought screams through my mind as our mouths connect for the first time. How is it possible I’ve known this guy for ten years and had no idea he could kiss like a dream?
His lips are soft, but the rest of him is hard and in-control. Punishing, even as he angles his body against mine and grazes my tongue with his. I respond by digging my nails into his shoulder blades in a signal I hope he can read: I don’t want gentle. I want a fierce, frantic birthday fuck to remember.
Either he reads my mind, or he remembers the secrets I confessed in college. The ones about liking it rough, about loving dirty talk more than just about anything. They’re the sort of things a nineteen-year-old girl can confess to her male BFF only after a few too many beers. Ian never judged, never responded with anything more than friendly interest.
And I’m pretty sure he remembers everything I told him, because he threads his fingers into my hair and clenches tight, forcing my head back so he can devour my throat with rough little nips of his teeth. I groan as his other hand slides under the hem of my shirt and keeps going. None of that tentative bullshit I get from guys who assume the sweet social worker doesn’t want to be manhandled.
She does. Oh my God, she does.
Ian gives a low growl as his hand claims my bare breast. Never in my life have I been so grateful that I left my bra in the bedroom. His palm is hot and possessive, thumb skimming over my nipple in a way that sends shockwaves of sensation down my bare arms. His mouth lays claim to me with every kiss, every punishing drag of his teeth down nerve-prickled flesh.
“Ian,” I gasp. “Fuck.”
The words throw fuel on the fire, and he uses his considerable body weight to push me back on the couch. He prowls over me, holding himself up on arms that ripple with muscle. His eyes are wild as he breaks the kiss and looks at me with a heat that sends my pulse into overdrive.
I grab at his shirt, desperate to feel him. To have him bite and push and tug at my hair again, but he holds himself back.
“Tell me now if you don’t want this,” he says. “If you’re tipsy or unsure or you’d rather watch Game of Thrones and eat birthday cake.”
I finally catch hold of his neckline and yank him back down. “I don’t want birthday cake,” I tell him. “I want you.”
A palpable relief surges through him, followed by something more powerful. I can feel it rippling through his shoulders as he covers my body with his. His kisses are even rougher this time, and I’m conscious of just how big he is, how deliciously hard and powerful. Did he have this body in college? I don’t think so, but I was too busy chasing idiot boys to notice.
Ian’s no boy. He’s all man, especially the part I can feel grinding against me through my thin flannel pants. I drag my nails down his back, memorizing the rows of muscle, the faint scents of sandalwood and grass. Expensive cologne or deodorant or shampoo, whatever it is makes my head spin like I’ve stepped into an opium den. Or maybe that’s lust making my brain buzz, making heat pool between my legs.
He breaks the kiss again and grabs the bottom of my tank top at the same time I catch the hem of his T-shirt in my hands. The result is a frenzied tangle of limbs and armholes and bunched-up fabric that leaves us panting and giggling at the same time.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls as he tosses my shirt across the room.
I drop his T-shirt on the ground and drag my hands down his chest. There are muscles here I didn’t know existed. “You—uh—work out.”
Brilliant observation, Sarah.
But Ian just smiles and lowers his mouth to my bare breasts. I gasp and clutch the back of his head as he devours one nipple, then the other. His hair tickles my chin, and I thread my fingers through it for the delicious contrast of softness and hardness. He’s holding himself over me on arms like something borrowed from the cover model of Men’s Journal.
Ian Nolan has the body of a God and the mouth of an angel, and I’m wondering how long I have to wait to get his pants off.
Fuck it. It’s your birthday.
The thought makes me bold, and I grab for the fly of his jeans with a kind of desperation that should probably make him fear for his safety. But he doesn’t jerk back, not even when I trace the thick line of his erection through coarse denim. He hisses out a breath as I stroke him, and I’m already tasting him on the back of my tongue. I need him in my mouth. I’ve never craved anything so much in my life. “Ian.”
He lifts his head and meets my eyes. “Yeah.”
“I haven’t blown out any birthday candles yet,” I say slowly, too lust-addled to care whether this sounds cheesy or sexy. “But maybe you’ve got something else I could blow.”
He closes his eyes and laughs, the sound somewhere between humor and a moan. “I’ve missed you, dork.”
I take that as a yes and tug open the button on his jeans. Yanking down the zipper, I shove his boxer briefs over his hips. My hand closes around his shaft, and I get a definite moan this time.
“God, Sarah,” he gasps as I start to stroke. “You shouldn’t—Christ—it’s your birthday.”
“And this is what I want.” I graze my thumb over his thick head, eliciting another moan. “Besides, yours was two days ago.”
