She hums softly. “Good different?”
“Very,” I say. “The best kind.”
She shifts closer, her body aligning with mine in a way that makes everything click into place. Her mouth findsmy jaw, then my neck, kisses slow and unhurried, like she’s got all the time in the world.
I slide my hand down her back, holding her there, feeling the warmth of her, the reality of her.
Just want. I. Want. Her.
Her lips brush my ear. “We don’t have to rush.”
I smile into her hair. “I don’t want to.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and intent.
“Me neither.”
Then she kisses me again, deeper this time, and there’s no mistaking where this is going.
Not urgency. Choice.
And fucking hell, it feels good.
I exhale sharply as her tongue flicks over my pulse point, her teeth grazing just enough to make my cock twitch in her grip.
“Can’t help it,” I manage, my voice rough. “You’re… fuck, Christa—”
The words die as her fingers slide into my pyjama trousers and close properly around my hard dick, her thumb swiping over the head, collecting what’s already there. She hums, low and approving, clearly pleased. Her free hand slides under my T-shirt, nails scraping lightly over my stomach.
“Mmm. Beautiful,” she rasps, pulling back just enough to search my face. Her pupils are blown, dark eyes almost black, the small silver stud in her nose catching the low light. “Say it.”
My pulse is hammering. I don’t look away.
“You’re fucking beautiful.”
Her laugh is dark and satisfied, her grip tightening just enough to make my hips jerk forward.
“Not me, you absolute prat,” she murmurs, thumb circling slowly, deliberately. “Look at you. All flushed and hard and mine.”
Mine.
The word lands heavy, stealing the breath from my lungs. It shouldn’t do this to me. I should be the one undone by her, by the curve of her body, the softness, the life growing beneath her skin. But the way she’s looking at me, like I’m something she wants to devour, something worth claiming, makes my chest tighten painfully.
She shifts closer, her belly pressing against my side. When my hand drifts up, fingers spreading instinctively over the curve of her bump, I feel it. A faint flutter. Real. Alive.
She gasps, grip faltering for half a second before she recovers, her movements slowing, becoming deliberate.
“Fuck, Geoff,” she breathes, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “When you touch me like that—”
“I know,” I murmur, mouth finding her ear. “I feel it.”
She shudders, arches into me, fingers tangling in my hair and pulling just hard enough to sting.
“Less talking.”
Her mouth crashes into mine. The kiss is filthy. Tongue and teeth and heat. She tastes like mint and something uniquely her. My hands move without permission, one fisting in her hair, the other gripping her thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh.
She whimpers into my mouth, hips rolling against me, friction building until it’s almost unbearable.
