Then he kisses me again. This time, it’s different. Softer. Slower. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the taste of my lips. His hands cradle my face with a tenderness that makes my eyes sting.
“You destroy me,” he whispers. “Do you know that? Every time I think I have my footing, you say something like that and I—” He breaks off, pressing his forehead to mine. “I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
“Isadora—”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He laughs against my lips. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” Another kiss, deeper. “I really, really do.”
His hands slide down to my thighs, and suddenly I’m being lifted, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The new position brings us impossibly closer, and I can feel all of him now—the hard planes of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against my core.
I rock against him without thinking, and we both groan.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Good.”
I roll my hips again, and his fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise. His head drops to my shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and the knowledge that I can affect him like this is intoxicating.
“Isadora.” His voice is muffled against my skin. “We need to slow down.”
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t, I’m going to take you right here against this mirror, and you deserve better than that.”
The mental image his words conjure makes my breath catch.
“What if—” I swallow hard. “What if that’s what I want?”
He goes completely still. When he lifts his head, his eyes are practically glowing—something that should frighten me but only makes me want him more.
“Don’t,” he says roughly. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
“I mean them.”
“Isadora—”
“I want you.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Every time we practice, every time you touch me, I think about—” I stop, cheeks flushing. “I think about this.”
“This?”
“You. Me. No music. No rules.” I meet his eyes. “Just us.”
Whatever wall he’d been trying to maintain crumbles, and then his mouth is on mine again, fierce and desperate. His hands are everywhere. My shirt gets pushed up, his palms sliding over the bare skin of my stomach, my ribs, and then higher. When his thumb brushes over my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, I cry out against his lips.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs, doing it again. “I’ll remember that.”
“Mal—”
“I want to learn everything about you.” Another brush, another gasp. “Every sound you make. Every way you like to be touched.” His teeth close gently on my earlobe. “I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
Oh God.
