Page 179
His grin finally breaks free.
“Never mind. You can keep talking.”
I laugh, and he kisses me before I can say another word.
His arms wrap around me, my fingers slide into his hair, and I pull him closer until my back presses against the shelving and the hard line of his chest grinds flush against my breasts.
There’s something delicious about being so thoroughly crowded by him, and I sigh with contentment.
Soon, my sigh turns into a moan and every sensible thought I’ve ever had promptly abandons me. There’s just the wet slide of our tongues against each other, the heat of his mouth, and the bulge in his pants telling me how much he wants me.
Through the fabric of my sweater, I can feel every taut muscle of his torso, the rough weave of his black T-shirt scraping over my erect nipples.
I know he feels it, too, because our kiss turns even more frantic. It’s demanding—a hungry clash of teeth and tongues. He tastes like peppermint and dark roast coffee: hot, bitter, and sweet all at once.
He hooks his fingers under my sweater, his palm burning hot against my bare skin as he pushes the fabric toward my armpits.
His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, then flicks over my nipple through the lace of my bra. A sharp, electric ache shoots straight to my core.
I arch off the shelving, silently begging for more friction, and he answers with a low, primal growl that reverberates against my sternum.
With a desperation that borders on violence, he drags my pelvis flush to his, leaving no mistake about the thick, rock-hard length of his cock pressed against my lower belly. Who knew that jeans could provide such perfect friction?
A fresh wave of heat floods between my thighs, slicking the cotton of my panties.
“Fuck, Quinn,” he breathes against my jaw, his voice dark and gravelly. He drags his lips down the column of my throat, his teeth catching lightly over my pulse point. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? Please tell me I can take you right here, right now. Please tell me I can fuck you, baby.”
“Yes,” I manage to gasp out, my hands already busy at his jeans. “Don’t ask. Just do it.”
“Oh, I will, don’t worry,” he growls out. Before I can get his jeans down, he spins me around in one fluid motion until my ass is pressed against him and I’m facing the shelving.
His fingers continue to play with my nipples as he presses his mouth against the shell of my ear, his breath hot and ragged against my skin.
“I’ve missed your perfect little pussy far too much. Now I’m not gonna let you go again. Is that clear?”
I couldn’t agree more, but only a moan slips out.
His hands leave my breasts for a moment, and the sudden absence of his touch makes me whimper.
I hear the distinct rasp of a zipper, the heavy clink of a belt buckle. My heart hammers against my ribs—a frantic, trapped bird.
I hear the tear of foil. My pussy clenches in anticipation.
I quickly get rid of my own jeans, stepping out of them with my back toward him. I don’t turn around.
“Spread your legs for me, baby,” he whispers, his voice a low vibration that I feel more than hear.
My body responds before my brain can catch up. I shuffle my feet apart on the concrete floor.
The rough pressure against my opening makes me gasp, my hips pushing back instinctively.
“Fuck, look at you,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
His hand slides down my stomach, slowly, oh so slowly, until it meets its target.
His fingers are cold against my hot, slick skin. He finds my clit instantly, circling it once, twice—a teasing, maddening touch that has my knees buckling.
“Please,” I breathe, the word a pathetic, broken sound.
