Page 68 of Then You Happened
When he eyed me across the dinner table, the conversation giving way to the sexual tension.
“Is this what you want?”
I nod.
“Tell me,” he says, his fingertips trailing down my bare arm, goose bumps chasing in their wake.
“Jack.” It’s a soft moan as his hand slides to the small of my back.
Kiss me.
“Tate.”
It’s the only word he says before his lips crash against mine and he pulls me flush against him.
Where the last time I hesitated when he kissed me, this time I dive right in. I allow my hands to run up the plain of his chest to his shoulders to thread through the hair at the nape of his neck.
My lips take hungry sips against his. My tongue demands more with each graze against his. My nipples harden and ache as his hands find their way to cup my breasts.
The moan I release is a reflex I can’t help, and I tighten my hands, which are still fisted in his hair.
“Christ, Tate.” His groan pulls on every nerve in my body to want more, to need more, of him.
I’d say it’s the copious amounts of wine I drank that has given me this heady buzz, but I know the way I feel has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with Jack Sutton.
Absolutely everything.
Maybe the wine just let me lower my guard so I could relax enough to enjoy the moment.
And maybe it gives me the courage to say, “I want you, Jack.”
He nips my bottom lip and pulls on it before he leans back. When his eyes meet mine, they’re a mixture of desire and patience that I’m not sure how he controls because every part of me itches to touch and taste and take more.
“I’ve wanted you since that first time you threatened to shoot me.” His chuckle rumbles against my lips as they meet mine again with a lot more urgency and a little less finesse than before.
This time, they tell me they aren’t stopping.
His fingers grab the fabric of my dress and inch it up until he can slide his hand beneath it and cup my ass.
Moments pass in an assault on my senses.
His hips grind against me; his cock hard and tempting. My nails dig into his shoulder through his shirt. His mouth laces kisses down my neck to tease and taunt the soft spot on the underside of my jaw. My hips press against his, needing so much more than a hard dick through soft clothes. His hand yanks my leg up to his hip and holds it there while his other slips beneath the lace of my panties.
And then he touches me.
Holy shit.
My body lights on fire when his fingertips run over the bud of my clit and then slide into the wetness below.
We both groan when he tucks two fingers into me, and our lips meet again, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth in perfect cadence with his fingers.
“Fucking hell, Tate,” he groans into my mouth as my fingers work clumsily on the buttons on his shirt.
It’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the sensations he’s pulling from me, but I want his skin. I need to feel it, see it, run my tongue over it.
Lose myself in it.
In him.
