Bracketing the side of his throat, I arch up, close enough that I feel the ghost of his touch, the tip of his nose brushing mine. His breath quickens and his pulse beats fast beneath my palm.
I like that, too.
“Is this … okay?” I ask gently and his breath shakes from his lips.
“Yeah, bubbles,” he whispers. “Full green.”
I hide my smile by pressing it to his lips, and he groans when we connect, his hardness pulsing beneath me.
It does all kinds of stuff to the swirling in my gut.
Is it supposed to be like that?
I shift against him, my hips digging into his, and gasp when there’s pressure I wasn’t expecting. It throws me off, making me stammer against his mouth.
“I-I-I’m hard.”
“Mmm, I feel that.”
He says it like it’s a good thing, his voice rich and raspy, his lips soft and welcoming. They part, his lips, and I squeak when his tongue touches my bottom one.
I open automatically, letting him in.
Without a clue of what to do, I chase his tongue like last time, curling mine around the muscle, and it’s like I pulled another one of those sounds from him. Deep and vibrating, it radiates down to my bones. Awareness of his touch shoots to the forefront of my mind, stealing all my attention. All my focus. It’s all I can think about, his hand on the back of my neck and circling my knee, and it’s …
Sexy?
If that’s what it’s called, I’m not sure, but I want more. More of his touch. More of his warmth.
More like last time, before I fucked up.
“Tristen,” I murmur into his mouth and it’s like all the things I feel inside me come out on his name. It’s weighted and desperate, just like me, as I lift closer and plunge my tongue between his lips.
My movements are chaotic and feel clumsy but that doesn’t stop the soft grunts he makes, or the swipe of his tongue over mine.
A buzzing I’ve never felt before flitters beneath my skin, stealing my breath with each second that Tristen’s allows me to stay pressed against him.
“Fuck, baby,” he moans against my mouth, and I feel it all the way to my groin. To my toes. To each of my past lives and in all of my next ones.
It’s not until I hear the sheetripthat I realize his grip left my knee and fisted in the fabric—the knee that’s nearly straddling him—and I yank back with panting breath.
“What’s—”
“Jesus Christ, Emmett,” he almost whines, his head tipping back enough to show me the thick cords of muscle running down his throat and how tight they are. “I’m so goddamn hard,it hurts.”
His chest heaves with his racing breaths, a flush to his face that makes mine feel hot.
Suck it back—
I shake my head, my intake whistling.
Don’t ruin this. He can’t ruin this.
“I-I don’t know wh—” I huff, cutting myself off and instead whisper a soft, “fuck this.”
The whimper that escapes Tristen’s throat as I settle my weight on top of him makes it easier to focus on him. His reaction. The way his shocked eyes flip to mine and get swallowed up by the black center until there’s nothing but desire staring back at me through thick, black-rimmed glasses.
At least, I think that’s what it is. It’s what all those actors looked like in the movies when they were about to kiss someone.
