In truth, I’ve been thinking about kissing him from the moment I met him—dreaming about it.
And it feels so good, so right, so natural that it leaves me breathless.
Gio’s hands slowly roam down my body, lighting a blazing trail of anticipation in their path.
It almost feels like he’s trying to memorize me, each kneading touch tender yet desperate.
No man has touched me like this for as long as I can remember, and I hadn’t realized just how much I craved it until now.
When his palms find my knees beside him, and he slowly slides them up my thighs, creeping closer to the hem of my dress, a deep, insatiable ache builds in the depths of my stomach.
Pulsing arousal drives me to respond instinctively as his fingers slide beneath the fabric, splaying there as he grips me—as if trying to rein himself back in.
But I don’t want him to stop.
My hips roll, seeking something more, and Gio’s grip tightens, stopping the movement—before pulling me more savagely against him.
The hot, thick ridge of his excitement through his slacks, and I gasp as the pressure against the peak of my thighs lights my nerve endings on fire.
I can feel the shiver that ripples down his muscular back, and my core tightens at the thought that it might be because of me—because he feels this inexplicable, undeniable pull like I do.
The way he kisses me would indicate he does.
His lips refuse to part from mine, even when my lungs are burning with the need for oxygen and explosions of white dots burst behind my eyelids.
And still, it feels like he’s taking his time, savoring every last touch.
I couldn’t say how long we stay like that, tangled in each other’s arms, lips locked and tongues trapped in a sensual and intimate dance.
Time might be racing on—or could even have stopped—and I wouldn’t know.
I’m too captivated by his touch, consumed by the desire to never stop.
This is what I imagine the proverbial high school make-out session must be like—only I should be well beyond that period of my life.
But I can’t help myself.
It doesn’t matter that I only just met Gio—or that this is technically our first date.
I want more of him, and this throbbing ache between my thighs is going to drive me crazy unless I satiate it.
Then a creak near the stairs makes my heart stop.
Wrenching my lips from Gio’s, I sit straight, my head snapping in the direction of the noise as my pulse launches into a sprint.
I would be mortified if Jackson found me in this state, my dress riding up until Gio could practically see my panties, our bodies so thoroughly intertwined that I would have no reasonable explanation for what we’re doing.
Thankfully, Jackson’s not standing at the top of the stairs.
It must have been the house shifting because I don’t see a glimpse of my little boy.
But it makes me intensely aware of just how exposed Gio and I are.
“Should we stop?” Gio murmurs, his husky voice low, sending a shiver up my spine.
My heart sinks at the suggestion, and when I turn to meet his striking light hazel eyes, I can see the same disappointment reflected there—but no frustration, no resentment if I say yes.
“Maybe we could take this somewhere a bit more private?” I suggest, my pulse fluttering at the thought.
