Every awkward, slobbery, mismatched clash of mouths I’ve endured? They don’t count. They don’t deserve to exist in the same category. All unworthy of being called kisses.
Whatever this is—this heat, this precision, this dizzying give and take—makes everything before it insignificant.
I’m humping the man now, one leg hooked around his waist.
I need him to stop before I embarrass myself. I will never, in a million years, let him.
The longer he kisses me, the faster I lose my capacity to think straight. Preston threads his fingers deeper through my hair, tilting my head as his mouth drifts to my neck. “You don’t need lessons in kissing,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my throat. “So, tell me”—he tightens his grip, just enough to steal a breath from my lungs—“what do you need help with, Miss Thorne?”
I’m grinning like an idiot, trying to pretend the best kiss of my entire existence didn’t just melt my brain. Forming a sentence now is like asking noodles to do calculus.
“I wrote a…”
His tongue traces back up my neck, slow and wet, followed by the scrape of teeth. My train of thought disintegrates on impact. He finds the spot beneath my ear and claims it, licking, biting, sucking, until the word I was reaching for evaporates.
I moan instead. Because language has failed me, as it does. My body is the only one doing any talking now.
Taking mercy on my dying vocabulary, Preston finishes the sentence for me. “You wrote a list, didn’t you?” His palm slides from my waist to my ass—grabbing a scandalous amount in those big hands of his, with those skillful surgeon’s fingers I should absolutely not be fantasizing about. He grinds his cock against my pussy through our thin layers of fabric, making me gasp, then moan.
There’ll be no coherent sentences from me tonight. Only curses.
If I speak, it’ll be in tongues.
“You wrote me that pretty color-coded list I asked, didn’t you? With every filthy thing you want me to show you? Teach you?” he murmurs against my neck, each question a slow thrust against me.
He knows it. He knowsme. And that makes everything so much hotter.
I’m wearing a silk cami set I panic-ordered this morning and paid an obscene rush fee for. Zero regrets. His pajama pants are barely thicker than a tissue. If he keeps talking, keeps moving, keeps pressing his hardness onto me—I’ll come before we even get to item one.
“What’s on the top of that list, baby? Tell me.”
I loop my arms around his neck and hitch my leg higher around his waist, chasing more friction, granting him full access. I’m wide open, grinding shamelessly against his shaft. Whoever this unhinged woman is, writhing and whimpering and dripping for a man she only just started kissing… I adore her.
“I can’t… I can’t reme?—”
He swallows the rest with a kiss, rescuing me from the humiliation of stuttering and ruining the moment.
When we break for breath, I don’t think—I just act. My hand slips between us, palm landing over his cock with a need so bold it borders on criminal. “I want to see you. Taste you. Let me.”
His dick pulses in my hand, so thick and heavy, each throb daring me to look down. I haven’t even seen it yet, but the thin cotton between us does nothing to soften the threat. I’ve never handled anything this massive.
My body’s split between two urges: climb him or run for my life. He’s going to either crack my pelvis or rearrange my internal organs.
But I didn’t come this far to fold at the sight of a challenge. Doesn’t matter how—literally—imposing it is.
I tug on the string of his pajama pants and loosen the bow, ready to dive into uncharted territory, when his fingers close around my wrist.
“Always so eager to please,” he murmurs, tone dark and knowing. “Always thinking about someone else’s needs before your own.”
What in fresh, condescending hell is this?
I glare. He grins.
“Let’s break that habit, shall we?”
He lifts my hand away with maddening care, as if unwrapping a present he intends to take his time with. “Here’s tonight’s lesson,” he says, walking me back against the wall, and pinning said hand above my head.
Fuck, that’s hot.
