I cup her face in my hands. Study her the way I can’t seem to stop myself from doing—the flush spreading down her neck, the dilation of her pupils, the way her lips part slightly when I run my thumb across her cheekbone.
“You’re analyzing me,” she says.
“I’m always analyzing you. Can’t turn it off.” I tilt her chin up. “Your pupils are dilated. Your pulse is elevated. You’re exhibiting signs of significant arousal.”
She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“It’s an observation.” I brush my lips against hers, barely a kiss. “My professional opinion is that I’ve been in love with you since we were kids, and I have no idea how to be normal about it.”
“I don’t want normal.” She fists her hands in my shirt, pulls me closer. “I want you.”
I stop thinking.
I kiss her—really kiss her—and ten years of careful control goes up in smoke. She tastes like wine and want and everything I’ve been denying myself. I back her toward the bed, hands sliding under Theo’s oversized shirt to find warm skin, the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine.
She yanks at my shirt and I break the kiss long enough to pull it over my head. Her hands are on me immediately, mapping mychest, my shoulders, dragging through the hair below my navel. I shudder at the contact.
“Off,” I manage, tugging at her shirt. “I need this off.”
She raises her arms and I strip it away. No bra underneath—just her, bare and beautiful, and I have to pause. Have to look.
“You’re staring again,” she whispers.
“I’m memorizing.” I trace the curve of her breast with one finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. “For later.”
“Later?”
“Mmhmm.” I palm her breast, feel her nipple harden against my hand. “A man needs material, Cara.”
She laughs, bright and surprised. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re gorgeous.” I dip my head, press a kiss to her collarbone. “And I’m taking a mental picture. Deal with it.”
She pulls me down onto the bed, and we’re a tangle of limbs and mouths and searching hands. I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts. She arches into me, gasping, her nails raking down my back.
“Pants,” she demands. “We’re both wearing too many pants.”
I laugh against her skin—actually laugh, which isn’t something I do often—and roll off her long enough to strip. She shimmies out of the sweatpants, kicks them off the edge of the bed, and then we’re both naked and I can finally, finally feel all of her against all of me.
She’s so warm. Soft in all the places I’m hard, slick where she presses against my thigh. I groan at the sensation, at the scent of her arousal filling my lungs.
“I want—” She pushes at my shoulder, and I let her roll me onto my back. “I want to be on top. Is that okay?”
“Cara.” I settle my hands on her hips as she straddles me. “You can have anything you want. Everything you want. Just tell me.”
She positions herself over me, and I can feel the wet heat of her against my cock. It takes every ounce of discipline I have not to thrust up into her.
“I want this.” She reaches down, wraps her hand around me, and I stop breathing. “I want you inside me.”
“Then take me.”
She sinks down slowly. Inch by inch, letting her body adjust, and I watch her face—the way her lips part, the flutter of her lashes, the small furrow between her brows as she stretches to accommodate me.
“Okay?” My voice comes out strained. She’s tight. So tight and hot and slick, and my knot is already starting to swell at the base.
“More than okay.” She bottoms out, takes me to the hilt, and we both groan. “God, Lucas. You feel?—”
“I know.” I flex my hips, just slightly, and she gasps. “I know exactly how it feels. I’ve imagined this approximately ten thousand times.”
