His hand shifted, fingers moving to tuck some of my hair behind my ear.
My head tilted, leaning into the barely-there touch.
His gaze slipped.
His fingers grazed.
His hand closed around the back of my neck.
Then when his gaze met mine again, the touch tightened.
I leaned.
He closed the distance.
Then his lips were on mine.
It was careful at first. Almost as if he expected me to pull away.
But when I moaned and moved closer, his head tilted, and the kiss went from soft to searing.
I reached outward, hands sliding up his chest.
His hands moved, slipping around my waist, then gently pulling.
He didn’t need to force the movement, though. I happily went up on my knees and moved over until I was straddling him.
His fingers flexed on my hips.
I sank down.
A deep moan escaped me at the hard line of his desire against my own need.
My hips rocked.
Milo’s groan vibrated against my lips. When mine broke away to moan, his mouth chased mine, like he was already addicted, like he needed another hit.
I rolled my hips again and when my lips parted on a whimper, his tongue slipped inside to sweep over mine—slow at first, then harder, hungrier.
Milo’s hands tightened on my hips, guiding my movements, driving me up.
The desire tightened, coiled, threatened to snap.
My lips ripped from his, my breath panting out of me.
“Tell me your name,” I demanded. “Please.”
“Milo,” he said, brows pinching.
“No. Your whole name,” I whimpered, the sound catching on a moan as his hardness pressed just right, as the pleasure screwed tighter, then splintered apart.
Milo’s arms went up from my hips, wrapping around me, holding me tight as I collapsed against him, breathing into his neck.
“Grassi. Milo Grassi,” he whispered in my ear.
I sank into him, into the trust he’d given me along with his name.
But before I could even feel my heartbeat go back to normal, the sound of voices started to drift down the hall, coming closer, pausing.
