Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)(100)

His lips brushed mine. Just a soft whisper. It felt like a test.

It also felt like torture. He was torturing me.

Unable to endure his gentleness, I lifted my chin and dug my nails into the back of his neck, fusing our mouths together.

With feeling.

And that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.

Abruptly, everything about him turned fierce, with biting teeth and devouring tongue. His strong arms wrapped around my body, as though to trap me, as he plundered my mouth in the most exquisite of all kisses.

Holy crap.

HOLY CRAP.

He was a great kisser.

I was dizzy with how great this felt, how necessary. Or maybe it was the lack of air. I didn't know. All I knew was that we were just going to have to keep kissing for the rest of our lives and that was that.

And plunder was exactly the right word. He lifted his head, sucking on my lip, tasting me anew, groaning when I responded with enthusiasm, tightening his hold when I shifted against him, licking and stroking the inside of my mouth. The twisting ache in my abdomen became overwhelming.



       
         
       
        

And yet . . . I wanted to be sure he was enjoying himself. I wanted to make sure he was feeling the same fireworks of arousal and wonder that were igniting in my chest. So I endeavored to give, and give, and give.

And then the tempo changed. Both the music and the rhythm of his kiss. The bass kicked up, strumming and thumping, long, savoring beats, reverberating through my chest, steady and intoxicating.

We were moving. Matt moved me backward, still kissing, his mouth on my neck, my jaw, biting and tasting and sucking my skin with impatience and hunger. His fingers dug into my shoulders and backside, his hold on the brink of painful. Likewise, I tried to mirror his movements, kissing his neck, wanting him to feel as desperately out of control as I did.

He steered us while we consumed each other, expertly weaving through the crowd, which seemed to instinctively recognize that this was a crisis.

At the stairs, he separated from me and I moaned my discontent, reaching for him. But then he bent, hoisting me over his shoulder, and I gasped.

He climbed the stairs and punched in the four-digit code. Then I heard him curse. "What the fuck is the code?"

"3-4-5-7," I said, laughing with desire-induced hysteria, my arms wrapping around his waist to keep myself steady.

"Thank you," came his short reply, punching in the numbers again, and we were through the door.

I didn't spare a thought for how obvious we were being, not one single thought. Because . . . whoremones.

Instead I began frantically pulling his shirt from his pants. And when he set me on the ground, I frantically undid the buckle of his belt. His hands were at the back of my dress, searching for the zipper while our mouths mated.

"Damn it," he breathed against my lips just as I released his buckle, winning the getting-the-other-person-more-naked race.

Unbuttoning his pants, I shoved my hand down the front of his boxers.

"Marie, fuck." Hissing, Matt pushed himself into my palm, a reflexive movement. Momentarily paralyzed, his forehead met mine and I saw him struggle, battling for control.

He felt so good, so right, so thick and hard and long and big and smooth and hot. The want in me clawed, demanding, obliterating caution, silencing what was left of reason, yet the desire to please him was just as strong, if not stronger.

I . . . worried.

Although I'd never felt so certain I would perish without satisfaction, I fretted that I wouldn't be able to provide what he needed in return. And so I rubbed my body against his, impetuously seeking friction and sensation and touch, hoping to communicate to him that I wanted to be an instrument of his satisfaction as well.

But then in the next moment, he yanked my hand away, holding my wrists hostage at my sides, and walked me backward, his mouth once again capturing mine for a starving kiss. Like I was the answer. Like all his hunger would end if he'd just kiss me long enough. 

My calves hit the couch and the strength of his advancing momentum sent me downward, my bottom hitting the velvet sofa, jarring me. He followed, kneeling on the floor, placing my arms around his neck while in the next moment his fingers slid under my dress. His thumbs gliding along the interior of my thighs, he parted my legs, making me tremble.

"Let me touch you," I begged, spreading myself wider for him as I moved to the edge of the couch. His fingertips inched higher. I gasped, the throbbing want built within me, becoming brutal and demanding. "I want to make you feel good."

"Lie back," he instructed, brushing his knuckles against my center, rubbing me teasingly through the lace of my panties.