Page 17 of Calculated Risk
So I kiss him again and this time, Marcus Chen stops calculating and starts feeling.
His hands slide from my face down to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart racing, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. Three years of tension, of wanting, of pretending we don't want it , it all comes rushing to the surface.
"Lilah," he breathes against my lips. "We should?—"
"Stop thinking," I whisper, walking him backward toward the old couch in the corner of my studio. "For once in your life, Marcus Chen, just feel."
"I'm trying." His voice is rough, unfamiliar. "But my brain won't?—"
I push him down onto the couch and straddle his lap, which effectively shuts down whatever analytical thought was forming. His eyes go wide, then dark with want.
"Better?" I ask.
"You're—" He swallows hard. "This is?—"
"Still thinking in incomplete sentences. That's progress." I thread my fingers through his messy hair and kiss him again, slower this time, deeper. His hands find my hips, gripping tight like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
When I rock against him, he makes that sound again, half groans, half surrender and something inside me ignites. I've imagined this so many times, but reality is so much better.The way his breath hitches. The way his carefully controlled composure is unraveling with every touch.
"Tell me what you're thinking," I murmur against his neck.
"That's—that's cruel. You just told me to stop thinking."
"I want to hear it anyway." I nip at his earlobe and feel him shudder beneath me. "Come on, Marcus. Use your words."
"I'm thinking—" His hands slide under my shirt, fingers splaying across my bare skin. "—that I've wasted three years. That I'm an idiot for waiting this long."
"You are an idiot." I pull back to look at him. His glasses are slightly askew, his lips swollen from kissing. He looks undone in the best possible way. "But you're my idiot now."
"Possessive. I like it."
"Yeah? What else do you like?"
His hands tighten on my waist. "I like that you're not afraid to take what you want. I like that you're fearless where I'm cautious. I like—" He pauses, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "I like that you make me feel things I can't plan for."
"Marcus—"
"I'm terrified," he admits. "Of messing this up. Of losing you."
"You're not going to lose me." I cup his face, forcing him to meet my eyes. "But you might miss out if you don't stop worrying about what could go wrong and focus on what's happening right now."
"And what's happening right now?"
"Right now," I say, pulling my paint-stained shirt over my head and tossing it aside, "you're going to stop calculating and start touching me like you mean it."
His breath catches. For a moment, he just stares, and I can practically see his brain short-circuiting. Then his hands are on me, reverent and hungry all at once.
"I've thought about this," he confesses, his voice low. "So many times."
"Tell me." I arch into his touch. "What did you think about?"
"Everything. Your hands. Your mouth. The sounds you'd make. Whether you'd be patient or demanding—" His fingers trace up my spine, and I shiver. "I'm guessing demanding."
"Good guess." I reach for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. "Off. Now."
"See? Demanding." But he's smiling as he helps me, shrugging out of the paint-stained fabric.
I run my hands over his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. He's leaner than I expected, all nervous energy and coiled tension. When I drag my nails lightly down his stomach, he hisses.
