But he wasn’t done teasing, exploring.
His lips and tongue worked down my throat.
The closeness was overwhelming in the best way—his heat bleeding into mine, the solid reassurance of him pressed near enough that I couldn’t tell where my breath ended and his began.
His hair teased over my sensitive skin, lighting little fires with each brush as his face settled between my breasts, breathing me in, then shifted to the side and sucked my nipple into his mouth.
A ragged cry escaped me as I arched up into his mouth; my hand slapped down on the back of his neck, holding him to me. But he had no intention of pulling away.
He tasted, circled, sucked, and nipped until I was panting, until I was writhing against him. Then he moved across my chest and made the need rise all the more.
My hands moved without planning—curled into the fabric of his jacket, pulled, tugged, chasing his warmth, the feel of him against me.
But he wouldn’t pull away to let me push the fabric from his shoulders.
He just pressed a kiss between my breasts and kept moving down, down.
Every inch he kissed felt louder then, places that never asked for attention suddenly insisted on it, nerves lit up one by one.
I was too aware of my heartbeat. Of how fast it was going. Of how it seemed to echo everywhere.
My thoughts scattered, no longer lining up neatly.
They arrived in fragments—heat, ache, yes,that.
His lips pressed to the triangle above my sex as his hands pulled my panties down.
Then his head tilted up ever so slightly, his gaze found mine, my own hunger reflected in his eyes.
I sucked in a steadying breath, my body knowing exactly what was coming next, and trying to prepare for it.
But then his head ducked again.
His tongue found the core of me.
And any thought of being prepared for the sensation felt laughable.
His tongue sparked a million little fires as time itself warped, coming slowly, then all at once, moments lost forever in sensation, in heat, in longing and pleasure.
His tongue found the core of me, and a tight coil formed deep in my stomach.
Harrison’s hands curled around my thighs, fingers digging in—firm, possessive.
And he just continued to tease his tongue over me.
My body tightened; sensitivity sharpened.
Every muscle tensed.
My thighs fought the hold of his hands.
All the while, his tongue circled, circled,circled.
The moment hovered on the edge.
Then went crashing over, taking me with it, my cries filling the room.
Pleasure washed over me over and over.
