He stills again, both hands in my hair. I look up at him, and I probably look wild, too—I can tell my face is hot and I’m breathing hard, my heart pounding.
“Our secret, right?” he says softly, dead serious. Both hands are still in my hair.
I have to fight the urge to laugh, and it must show on my face because his nose scrunches a little. “Obviously,” I say.
“Just this once?”
I swallow, hard. “Just this once.”
He nods once, decisive, and his eyes flick to my lips. “Do you still like…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just tightens both hands in my hair until I can feel it. Not pain, just—presence. I let him tilt my head back a few degrees, and he pulls a little harder. His breath catches, and this time my eyelids do flutter shut. My spine feels liquid.
Then his mouth is on mine, sweet and soft and gentle, delicate little kisses at odds with the grip he’s got on my hair. I catch his bottom lip between my teeth, and he pulls back, laughing.
“Fuck, Madeline,” he says, rubbing the tip of his nose along the bridge of mine, still holding me still. “Teeth.”
“You forget I bite?”
“Not for a second.” Then we’re kissing again, harder but still slow, his tongue curling into my mouth. Somehow I’ve got both hands fisted in his T-shirt, twisted so my knuckles are against the soft skin of his belly.
Finally, he pulls back. Lets my hair go. Rests his thumb right below my lower lip. It’s casual and possessive all at once, and I try not to think about it. I try not to think about anything. Thoughts aren’t what I need right now.
“What?” I finally say because he’s watching me, studying my face like he’s looking for brushstrokes.
“Nothing,” he says and then smiles this devilish little half smile, strokes his other hand to my lower back. “Just thinking. C’mon.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JAVIER
Then I’mon the couch, blue velvet and kitten-soft, and Madeline’s climbing on top of me, anchoring her hands on my shoulders. Her hair’s mussed where I grabbed it, and her knees are on either side of my hips. She leans in.
“Kiss me,” I say, and she does. She’s soft and warm, and even as I lick into her mouth it feels like she’s holding back, her hands tentative on my shoulders, her weight held off my thighs. If this is the last time—and itis—then I don’t want that. I want her mindless and slutty and wrung out by the time we’re finished. If we’re going to make stupid decisions, we’re going to make them worthwhile.
I put my hand in her hair again. There’s only one light on in here, a floor lamp on the other side of the room, so her face is shadowed, but it’s easy enough to see the way her lips part. I pull her mouth to mine again. Close my hand—not pulling her hair, notreally—and this time she makes a noise and her body sinks against mine.
Some deep, buried part of my brain hisses with pleasure, so I tighten my fingers—barely, god, it’s so gentle—and she sighs.
Madeline lets me move her with the hand in her hair, tilting and pressing in, deepening the kiss until it’s filthy with tonguesand teeth. When I pull her back, she’s flushed, her lips parted, pink, slick with spit, her whole body tense as she balances on her knees.
“Relax,” I murmur, pressing one thigh down with my other hand, and she does. I take her weight, her hands resting on my chest, her breathing quick. She’s wearing a red tank top tucked into dark blue jeans, and every time she inhales, I can see the faint line where her bra cuts across the top of her breasts. I can’t fucking think.
So I don’t. I keep one hand in her hair and take her face with the other, trace her bottom lip with my thumb and stop in the middle. For moment Madeline doesn’t move. Then there’s the soft, wet tip of her tongue against the pad of my thumb. I hear myself whisper “Oh,” and then her lips close and her teeth are against my first knuckle. Her eyes close, her tongue stroking the underside of my thumb.
It takes me several seconds before my brain is anything but white noise.
“Do you like this?” I ask. It comes out a raspy whisper, and I clear my throat. Madeline hums around my thumb, the vibration a tiny shockwave. I pull it out, rest it on her lower lip.
“Yes,” she says, and flicks her tongue against it again.Fuck.
“Will you take your clothes off?” I ask. “Please?”
I let her go, and Madeline scoots back to stand. She’s off to one side because there’s no space between my knees and the coffee table, and I lean forward, elbows on knees, to watch.
“You, too.” She pulls at the hem of her tank top.
“Not yet.”
She pauses at that, but it’s just for a moment, and then the shirt’s off, over her head, placed neatly on the coffee table. Then pants: she unbuttons, unzips, slides them off. Steps out. She’s got on black underwear and a tan bra, her hips a little wider than her shoulders, belly a gentle hill, thighs muscular and soft all atonce. She could probably suffocate someone with them. They’d be the luckiest motherfucker in the world.
