Until I can’t. Until I’m squirming.
“Dammit, just kiss me,” I plead, since I can’t stand this.
He tsks me, shaking his head. “Say please.”
I pout. “Fucker,” I mutter.
He laughs devilishly. In charge. “Try again,” he says, amusement and arousal in his tone.
Two can play. “Please…fucker,” I taunt.
Another chuckle.
“Much better, Ripley,” he says, and it sounds like my name on his lips tastes good to him. So good that I close my eyes.
The world is dark for a few delicious seconds, and I’m sure he’s going to kiss me the way he touched me—with slow, tantalizing, barely-there kisses. But the second his lips touch mine, I hurtle into new terrain.
He crushes my mouth with his, and I gasp in surprise. He swallows the sound in a bruising kiss that knocks me off-balance, even though I’m sitting. His hand curls tight around my head. He kisses with a hunger I’ve never experienced before. With a passion that’s all new to me.
It’s hot, deep, a little rough.
It’s the kind of kiss where you haul a woman up against the kitchen counter and bend her over. It’s a kiss that says we’re both grown-ass adults who need to blow off steam.
But when he breaks the kiss, his eyes flash with guilt, maybe. Or is that concern? “Shit, was that too rough?”
He says it like he’s legit worried. Like he thinks I might not like his rugged kiss. “No, it wasn’t,” I say, breathy and surprised.
He breathes out hard, perhaps grateful. “Good,” he says, then purses his lips, like he’s holding something back. Maybe that he likes it a little rough?
Maybe I like being rough too.
I grab the collar of his shirt, jerking this big man a little closer. “Just to be sure though…do it again.”
“Yeah?” It’s asked with a wild kind of delight.
“Yeah,” I answer the same damn way.
In no time, he seals his mouth to mine, curls one hand around my hip, and ropes the other through my hair. He gives a tug, and I yelp softly into his mouth, but he doesn’t break the kiss.
He amps it up. Hard. Fierce. Certain. His hand lets go of the hold on my hip, climbing higher to my waist.
I angle closer, letting him know with my body that I want his touch. Need it. He slides his hand under my shirt, splaying his fingers across my stomach, spreading them over my skin, then wrenching away a few seconds later.
“Fuck, you’re soft,” he says, kind of mesmerized. His eyes look hazy. Then he blinks. “I’d like to get you naked really fucking soon. Think that’ll work for you?”
I furrow my brow. “Was it not clear?”
“I just like to ask.”
He’s an unusual mix of gentleman and caveman. I want to feel him above me, under me, and over me.
God, that image sends a wicked thrill through me, a hot ache in my core.
But then I picture the suite, and the hot mess I left it in flashes before my eyes. The laptop, myBees Do It BetterT-shirt—all the reminders of the farm. Reminders I don’t need right now when I want tonot thinkabout every single thing I need to do in the next twenty-eight days.
“Can you give me ten minutes?” I ask.
“Yeah, I…” He stops, then a hint of shyness flickers in his eyes. “Need to get a condom anyway.” He scratches his jaw, then shrugs. “Sometimes at hotels, the fitness center has them in a vending machine, or the front desk does. If you ask, that is.”
