The word hits hard.
I shove it down.
Too soon.
Too dangerous.
Too damn true.
Her hands slide up my sides. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Can you stop?”
“For you?”
She nods.
I lower my mouth to her throat. “Yeah.”
She arches when I kiss the pulse there.
That sound she makes? It’s going to haunt me.
I take my time because I don’t trust myself to rush. I kiss her jaw, her throat, the soft skin above her collarbone. My hand finds her waist. Her hip. The edge of her shirt.
I stop there.
She grabs my hand and slides it beneath the fabric herself.
My palm meets warm skin, and my control takes a hit.
“Fuck, love.”
She shivers.
“You okay?”
Her eyes flash. “If you ask me that every ten seconds, I’m biting you again.”
There she is.
I grin against her throat. “Promise?”
Her breath breaks.
I drag my hand over her side, learning softness and heat, the curve of her waist, the way she trembles when my thumb brushes higher.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
She makes a disbelieving little sound.
I lift my head. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Act like I’m lying.”
