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He does. It’s the soft and tentative press of his lips first. Then less careful. He gasps into my mouth when I catch his lower lip again, and then our tongues tangle. And I think, not for the first time, that I’m in so much trouble.
THIRTY-TWO
QUINN
I kiss down his throat, greedy for the salty taste of his skin. I’m hot. I pause for a second, not thinking it through before pulling off my shirt. He’s touching my skin anyway, and this way he doesn’t need to be under the fabric to do it.
The air hits my back, sending goosebumps down my spine. I drop the shirt over the side of the bed without worrying where it lands, lean forward, and draw a line with my tongue from his where his shirt meets his throat all the way up to just below his ear, and then freeze because I just did something in the middle of a lesson without asking if it was okay.
Daniel’s hands go still on my waist.
“Okay?” he asks. His voice is strained. I can feel it in the way his throat bobs under my mouth.
“I was warm.” That’s true. It’s also not the whole truth. “And you were already touching my skin anyway. The shirt was in the way.”
He hums, and his hands trail further up my sides, his thumbs brushing the flesh right near my nipples. Instinct drives me, and I grind down into his lap, seeking friction. His hard length slots up next to mine, and I can’t breathe through the exquisite pleasure of dragging myself over him. He groans, leaning his head back and giving me more access to his throat.
“Fuck, Quinn,” he growls when I nip at the skin like he does my lip. I quickly soothe the tiny bite with my tongue. “Ohmyholyfuckinghell.”
I go still so fast my body throbs with protest.
This is the part where he dumps me on the mattress. Last time, he made a bad sound and hauled my hand off him. I start to lift up.
His hands clamp on my hips and pull me back down. He lifts his hips into me.
“No,” he says. “Stay. That wasn’t a stop. That was a good sound. Do that again.”
Pleasure at his words is almost more than the pleasure I’m getting out of dry humping him. Stay. He isn’t going to leave me and go kiss someone else.
I don’t care that he doesn’t want a commitment.
“You’re sure?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He rolls my hips with his hands, guiding me, showing me the angle he likes, and the drag of us together makes my vision black out at the edges. “Grind on me. That’s allowed.”
I drop my forehead against his neck and do it again, smaller, then less small when he groans and doesn’t stop me. He runs his hands back up my sides now that I’m moving on my own. His thumbs keep stroking that same strip of skin by my nipples, and it’s driving me crazy. I whimper into his throat, and he holds me on him like I’m going to stop.
I’m not.
I suck on his skin as I get lightheaded.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Use me.”
I do. I drag myself against the hard line of him through our clothes, finding the place that makes my stomach pull tight and stay there, rocking my hips. His shirt is bunched up between us and I want it gone, but I don’t have a hand to spare because both of them are currently gripping the back of his neck and hair to keep his neck within reach.
Every roll of my hips has a sound coming out of him that I can feel beneath my lips. I kiss the underside of his jaw, and he tips back further like he’s offering me his whole throat if I want it.
“Good,” he breathes. “Just like that. Don’t think. Just feel it.”
I am definitely feeling it. I’m also thinking, because I always am, but the thoughts are short little bursts. Stay. Baby. Allowed. Harder. More.
He shifts slightly, hooking an arm around my back and twists us. The bed dips. Suddenly, I’m not sitting in his lap, I’m on top of him, chest to chest, his back on the mattress, my knees still bracketing his hips. The new angle puts all of my weight on him.
“This okay?” he asks, already holding my ass in his hands.
Is this okay? Is the sky blue? Is every living organism part of some ancient star that supernova’d somewhere? Is water wet?
“Yes.” It comes out in a breath of air. “You’re—under me.”
