“Keegan,” I whisper. I have no more words. My skin feels two sizes too small and even though I’m dying to ask him a thousand questions about what he just said, I know I will actually die if he doesn’t kiss me.
“Fuck, Glasses.” He slides one hand behind my neck and then finally lowers his lips to mine. There’s nothing tentative or sweet about the kiss. He doesn’t ease us into it. No, Keegan devours me in a no-holds-barred-I-can-make-you-come-just-from-a-kiss kiss.
The slide of his tongue against mine is like a live wire to my clit, and I shamelessly rock myself against his thigh.
His mouth leaves mine, only to blaze a heated trail down my jaw to my neck and across my collarbone. I’m pretty sure I’m moaning like a porn star, but I try not to think about it. This is one moment I don’t want to fantasize. I want to be wholly here. With him. Enjoying that deliciously wicked thing he’s doing with his tongue on the sensitive skin between my neck and my shoulder.
“That day we met,” he says, but his mouth keeps licking and biting at my tender skin. “There you were with these big gorgeous eyes, wearing nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel. I got hard so fast I think I lost some brain cells.”
He leans up then. His eyes are molten as he stares at my face.
His fingers fumble at my back to find the zipper of my dress. He tugs it down all the way to the small of my back, skimming his fingers along the bare skin he reveals before bunching the fabric of my dress in his hands, lifting me just enough to pull my dress up and over my head. He tosses it to the floor, leaving me dressed only in my bra and panties.
“So damn perfect,” he whispers. He cups both my breasts. His calloused fingers and warm palms weigh my breasts, his gaze moving over my body as if he’s thought of this moment again and again.
He strips away the last of my clothing with brusque, frantic hands. Again, I rock myself against him, desperate for more pressure against my clit.
“Jesus, Meg, I can feel how fucking wet you are through my pants.”
Maybe that would embarrass me if I couldn’t feel how hard he is. And even that is baffling. Keegan wants me? Hasbeenwanting me, if he’s to be believed.
How is that possible?
As if he can sense the questions racing through my mind, he pulls back and gives me another searing, searching look. “Are we on the same page here? I need to know you want this as much as I do.”
It’s not a question I feel qualified to answer.
Wanting Keegan is terrifying. It always has been. For so many reasons.
But hasn’t the main reason always been that I’ve been afraid to want him because I assumed he didn’t want me? If I’m wrong, if he does want me, then what’s holding me back?
“I do. So badly.”
The words come out on a breath, little more than a whisper. But it’s enough.
Without warning, he plants his shoulder in my stomach and picks me up, fireman style, and marches to my bedroom.
My body bounces when he tosses me onto the bed. He carries me like I weigh nothing, like he’s too desperate to get to my bedroom to wait. I lean up on my elbows and watch him undress. He’s all masculine energy and grace as he toes off his boots. When he’s standing in nothing more than black boxer briefs—ones dotted with the Enterprise—he crawls up the bed, kissing his way up my body, not stopping until he’s wedging his shoulders between my legs and parting my lips with his tongue as he slides a finger deep inside me.
Under different circumstances, I might feel self-conscious. I might get too much in my own head, my thoughts and insecurities keeping me too grounded. But not with Keegan.
With him, I can’t think of anything but him. His touch drowns out everything else. That, plus the never-ending litany of words. It’s like being worshiped by his mouth, by the touch of it on my body, and by the things he says.
Oh, the things he says.
He tells me how much he wants me. How much he’s always wanted me. Spelling out detail after detail of every fantasy he’s had about me. About us.
How he used to lie awake in the room next to mine when we lived together, imagining all the things he wanted to do with me. To me.
That’s how I come the first time with Keegan. With his teeth and tongue pressing against my clit and his words of praise and filthy fantasies burrowing into my soul.
chaptertwenty
I don’t fallasleep after climaxing. At least I don’t think it was sleep. It’s more like I pass out. Or lose time. Or have some kind of out-of-body experience.
Which almost makes sense, because surely there wasn’t room in my body for all of those sensations and feelings and for me as well.
So, of course, I must have just drifted away for a few minutes.
