Make her mine.
But that’s not in the cards for me. For us.
This is as far as it can go. This show, these moments. And if that’s the case, if I’ll never have the chance to hold my little pixie on my lap again, there’s no way in hell I’m going to waste this chance, this moment.
Ren’s brows pull low over those bewitching eyes of hers as I lean back, using a knuckle to tip her chin toward me. “Court?”
“I want to kiss you, Pix. Can I?”
There’s a flicker of hesitation, a moment where I’m sure she’s going to say no. So much so that I’ve already dropped my hand away from her chin, when she breathes out a soft, “yes.”
Another moment where I don’t let myself think through the consequences of my actions. My hand comes back to her precious face, my mouth already descending toward hers. She lifts to meet me and then…
Electricity.
Fireworks.
Bolts of lightning zipping up and down my spine.
With one kiss, Florence Karlin has altered my make-up, my DNA.
And I will never be the same again.
Episode 21: Pricked Finger
I knew kissing Courtland Ashbourne would be good. There’s just something about him, about his mouth, his lips that proclaims him as a good kisser, but I didn’t know it would be like this.
All consuming. Delicious. I can’t get enough.
I shift on his lap and his hands slide to my hips, supporting me as I move to straddle his thighs. My arms wrap around his shoulders, my hand plunging into that silky soft hair of his. He slides one of his hands to my ass to press our pelvises tighter together, while the other cradles the back of my head.
We kiss and kiss and kiss, until we’re both panting, not enough oxygen in our lungs. My lips are swollen and my panties are soaked. From just kissing.
But then I’ve never been kissed like this.
Ever.
I’ve made out with men, sure. I’ve kissed them before sex or after or during. But not one of them held my face in their hands like I’m the most precious thing in the world to them, while also fucking my mouth with their tongue like a demon.
It's a heady combination of gentleness and all-consuming hunger and I will never grow tired of it. I want to keep kissing him forever.
Please, let me keep kissing him forever.
But almost as soon as I think the plea, he’s pulling back, pressing soft quick kisses over my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead, before returning to my lips. His hands move as restlessly as mine do. To my ass, slipping under the hem of my shirt up my spine, out of my shirt and into my hair to hold me steady, while the other brushes against the side of my breast, my nipple.
“Court,” I pant, wiggling against him. The pressure building. The need is almost unbearable.
“I know, pix,” he murmurs, smoothing my hair back before he leans up to kiss me again. Slow drugging kisses that steal my mind and my sanity and my self-control.
His fingers brush against the skin of my stomach, the waistband of my leggings, questioning. Waiting for me to approve of taking this next step.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t even be sitting on his lap, making out like a teenager.
This is just asking for trouble. For heartbreak.
But I can’t seem to make myself care at this moment.
