She laughs. “Is that what that was?”
“Mm.”
I kiss my way up the side of her neck, slow enough to ensure she feels it, and she tips her head back against the wall for me as if she already knows how this goes.
“You loved it.”
“Don’t push it,” she answers, but she’s smiling when she talks, still half laughing, and that sound smothers me right in the damn chest.
Then I drag my teeth lightly over her pulse point.
The laugh breaks.
What comes out instead is soft and shaky and so much sweeter than I was ready for that I have to shut my eyes for a second and breathe through it.
Fuck.
There she is.
That’s the version of her I’ve been chasing since she dropped into my lap and looked at me like she could take me or leave me, all while her body gave away every lie her mouth tried to tell.
My hand tightens at her waist. Not enough to hurt, but just to let her feel exactly how little space I’ve got left between wanting and taking.
I kiss her again, claiming that mouth I’ve been thinking about since the lounge, and this time it’s different. Dirtier. Hungrier. Less testing. She rises up into it as if she’s been waiting for me to stop being nice, and fuck, I adore the way she kisses with the intention to win. Her nails scrape against my chest, and she makes these adorable, frustrated noises when I pull back half an inch and make her follow me for more.
“Greedy,” I say against her lips.
She catches my lower lip between her teeth, just enough to sting. “You followed me into the bathroom.”
A laugh punches out of me, low and rough. “Yeah, and I’d do it again.”
Her smile is quick as I kiss down her jaw. My hand leaves her neck and drifts lower, over the line of her waist, the shape of her hip, learning her through fabric and pressure and heat. She’s soft where I want her soft, and every time I touch her, she gives me something back. A hitch in her breath. A tilt of her hips. A quiet, helpless little exhale she probably doesn’t even realize I’m collecting.
We hit the wall twice trying to find the best standing position. My elbow smacks the paper towel dispenser hard enough to rattle it, and she snorts, laughing into my shoulder while I’m stillmuttering, “Jesus Christ,” under my breath. I catch the hem of her shirt and drag it up over her head.
She blinks at me, hair everywhere, mouth open, and then she grins.
Fuck.
That grin is going to kill me one day.
I get her bra unclasped with one hand, more instinct than thought, and her brows go up.
“Practiced,” she says.
“You could say that.”
“Sure.”
But she’s distracted now, and I know exactly why. Her eyes darken as I strip the bra off and toss it aside, and she doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there in that tiny bathroom with her hair a mess and her lips swollen from kissing me, letting me look.
So I do.
I take my time with it too, because I’m a man and she’s in front of me half naked and flushed and gorgeous, and if she’s going to offer me a view like this, I’m damn well going to appreciate it properly. My gaze drags over every soft, tempting inch of her, the full curve of her breasts that perfectly fill my hands, the tight little rise and fall of her breathing, the way her dusky pink nipples tighten under the cool cabin air and my stare. I squeeze them, and my cock throbs harder. She watches me like she understands what seeing her like this does to a man.
She should.
I’m not hiding a fucking thing.
