He peels his shirtoff slowly, watching me as my eyes rake over his toned, tanned, and chiseled chest, down to his endlessly rippled abs. I feel my mouth hang open, so I snap it shut, wishing I could wipe the corners of my lips with my fingertips.
There doesn’t need to be evidence of me thinking he’s edible.
It’s like he’s stepped right out of a photoshoot, and jumped directly into my wildest fantasy. It’s the only way this scenario makes any sense.
He’s playing you like a fiddle, my subconscious tries to warn me, but I shake her off.
I deserve to have one night with the hottest man to ever walk the planet, and that snarky, self conscious version of me doesn’t get to decide otherwise.
His palms trace up the back of my thighs, the calluses on his hands dragging against my skin, slowly making their way to my ass. A loud groan rumbles through his chest, straight into the pit of my stomach.
Why is he groaning?
Does he not like what he feels?
Can he feel the individual bumps from my cellulite?
Can he somehow feel the texture changes in my skin from soft to stretch marks?
Before I can stop myself, I pull my eyes away from the incredible specimen in front of me, spotting the light switch right beside us on the wall, and my hand finds it like a magnetic field.
The room instantly darkens, and his hands pull away from me, fumbling along the wall. “Please don’t.” I accidentally beg, my voice sounding weak and pathetic, and the sound of his hand thrashing against the wall stops, and I feel him place them back on my skin, softer than they were.
“But I want to see you,” he tells me. There’s no demand in his tone. He’stellingme what he wants, but notforcingme to do it. “I’ve thought about you all night, Snow.” He snakes his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him, and the bitch that is my body betrays me.
She moves closer, sinking into him like butter, melting in the warmth that he radiates.
“I don’t do lights,” I reply quickly, ignoring the ridiculous nickname, hopeful he doesn’t push the issue.
He’s also a complete stranger.
He doesn’t owe me anything. But then I realize that I don’t owe him a damn thing, either.
“It’s either lights off, or nothing at all.”
I whimper as his lips dot kisses against my rib cage, making me hate myself for fighting this so badly when all I want is to give in and never see him again.
“Can we compromise?” he asks when his lips break away from me, my body aching to feel the connection again—to feel any part of him against any part of me.
“What do you propose?” I ask, dipping my head lower. This time, it’s me who initiates the kiss.
I just need more.
One of his hands cups the side of my cheek, the other grips my hair from underneath to deepen the kiss, but when he pulls away, he nods to the lamp on the nightstand. My cheeks puff out with an exhale. I know I’m about to regret this with everything fiber of my being.
You’ll never have to see him again.
“Fine.” I don’t think the word completely left my lips when he slammed our mouths back together, pulling me down on top of him. He fumbles for the switch on the lamp until his hotel room lights up ever so slightly.
He curses under his breath at the lack of glow, and I chuckle against his lips.
The way our bodies curve together—moldtogether—like we were sculpted as a pair. A piece of art to be displayed in a museum for decades to come.
His arm is still looped around my waist, pulling me down tighter on top of his until I wriggle free from his hold.
Pulling my lips away from his, I pepper kisses across his jaw, down his neck, covering every inch of his torso until my mouth lingers around the waistband of his pants.
He sucks in a deep breath.
