Page 76 of Ignition

I peered at him over my shoulder and found his eyes half-lidded, right before he drew my hair to one side. His mouth trailed a blazing line from earlobe to the dip of my shoulder, where my sweater had slipped.

Insides turning liquid, I stifled a soft sound in my palm.

“Was I not supposed to?”

He chuckled low and shook his head, nose brushing the side of my neck and kicking up goose pimples.

The sound slid right under my skin.

“It’s just…” His palms skated up my stomach as his chest pressed against my back, his body heat turning my skin all itchy and tight again.

“You’re not known for obedience,” he hummed on my skin, teeth pulling my sweater down a little, before sinking into the dip of my shoulder.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

“Ahh, shit.” My hand clamped harder over my mouth.

Slowly, he turned me in his arms, his teeth rolling that bottom lip as he took me in, from wide eyes to the telltale blush staining my face and neck. His gaze snagged on the necklace, before his fingers brushed the thin silver chain, drawing a shiver along my collarbones.

“That’s new.” He fiddled with the green-stoned pendant, expression darkening with something I couldn’t put my finger on. When I blinked, it was gone.

“Goes well with your eyes,” he murmured before pulling me into a shadowed corner.

His hands rose to cup my cheeks and tilt my head back.

“You’ve been driving me crazy with that blush…”

His breath brushed over my face in little pants, smelling of coffee and vanilla sweetness as he leaned in closer, thumb pressing against my lower lip.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut, before a hand came up near my head, hedging me in. His eyelashes grew heavy, before his mouth brushed the corner of mine.

Another groan—his or mine, I didn’t know—and his lips captured my own.

Hungrier, surer than yesterday, swallowing my soft, stifled sounds as his free hand skated under the hem of my sweater, brushing and stroking the skin underneath.

My hands speared into his hair, dragging him closer, closer, until his chest stuttered against mine, until the shelf dug into my lower back, until oxygen grew thin, drowned in the heat of our mouths.

The silky strands yielded easily beneath my hand, soft enough to comb through, thick enough I wouldn’t worry about pulling too hard.

“Why’d you wear a skirt today? I was doing so well…” he complained, a low rumble against my tongue before he sucked my bottom lip between his own and nibbled on it.

His hand brushed over my ribs, thumbs drawing slow arcs right under my bra.

“What should I wear?” I taunted, breathless as my head tipped back.

“Nothing. My shirt. A burlap sack,” he growled, mouth sliding from mine with concentrated focus: down my jawline, down the column of my throat. His teeth grazed my collarbone as he fought himself, by the way his fingers dug into the soft flesh over my ribcage.

“Final answer?” I panted.

I felt his swallow against my throat as his lips pulled my pale, sensitive skin and sucked, hard enough I smothered a wince. I should have hated it, but my body disagreed. Loudly.

My fingers bunched in his sweater as his thigh slotted between my own, forcing us closer.

A sharp pang of arousal barrelled through me, skittering down my spine and pooling low and traitorous, almost as traitorous as the urge to grind against him like a cat in heat.

God, what’s wrong with me?

“Final answer: you’re a problem,” he mouthed on my neck, painting another bruise, another little claim my feminism should have risen against. But the only thing rising was my blood pressure and the hem of my sweater. Soft fabric brushed over sensitive skin, until my bra peeked out, and his eyes pinged open.