Sweet Cheeks(59)

“A terrible idea,” I murmur and this time I take the initiative and kiss him back. A soft part of the lips. A barely there brush of tongues.

“Horrible,” he whispers before matching the depth of my kiss and adding to it. His other hand comes up to frame the side of my face, his thumb resting just beneath the line of my jaw so he can control the angle of the kiss.

“Awful.” Our bodies mesh the same time our tongues do. His body still hot from his run. Still firm. Still slick with sweat.

“Stupid,” he whispers. A slight smile forming on his lips before he dives back in to taste and take. Taunt and tantalize. Demand and offer.

I moan. Can’t help that I do because there’s a dominating tenderness to his kiss. A forgiving relentlessness. A desperate calmness. There’s no rush to it. No hurry to get to the next part.

Thoughts escape me with each dance of our tongues. With each tug on my bottom lip by his. With each soft directive of his lips moving against mine.

My hands skim up the sides of his torso, loving the feel of the bunching of his muscles beneath my palms. He fists a hand in my hair and changes the angle of the kiss. Choreographs the next step in our slow dance of desire.

“Saylor.” My name on his lips in that gravelly tone scrapes over me. Drags me from the haze his kisses have pulled me under. He leans back so our eyes can meet.

Seconds pass. Questions, wants, needs, flicker through his eyes. Should we? Can we? How is this happening again?

His jaw pulses. His dick is hard against my hip. His waning control reflected in the tightening of his fingers in my hair.

My lips part. Yes. Yes.

Because it’s us.

But I can’t give the answers because I’m silenced by the moment and by the bright burn of arousal coursing through my body. By the need to want and the want to need this connection with him.

By acknowledging that I love him. Probably always have.

“I’ve never been able to resist you. Not then. Not now.”

Not ever.

Our past and present collide in one sweeping moment of time. Our mouths meet again in a savage union   of lips and tongue and want and desire and greed and hunger. Our hands slide and grab and feel and possess each other’s flesh.

We’re a frenzy of movements. Of not being able to touch each other quickly enough, and yet wanting to slow down and take our time with this reunion   that has been years in the making.

His mouth is on the underside of my neck. His hands are pulling down the straps of my swimsuit, then palming my breasts. Thumbs run over the tips of my nipples sending a tsunami of sensation through my body.

His lips lace hungry kisses against the sensitive skin to my ear. I fumble with his shorts while he pushes down my bikini bottoms. My cool hands slide beneath the waistband to find him hot and hard and ready. My mouth falls open from his teeth scraping over my nipple while his hands are everywhere and not enough places all at the same time. The evidence of what I do to him stiff in my hand.

His hands are on my waist. My feet leave the floor, and the hard granite of the countertop is cold beneath my ass. There’s a clatter of utensils. A thud of something falling over. A plume of flour in the air. But Hayes doesn’t miss a beat. He steps between my thighs and pulls my ass to the edge so I’m perched there, needing his body to ensure I don’t fall. And then he claims my mouth again in a kiss that promises possession and surrender.

My hands are on his shoulders. His fingers feather over the entrance of my sex, part it, then slide up and back through my arousal. My head falls back. My thighs spread wider, my body instantly giving him access to every single part of me without a word.

I moan when he slips his fingers into me. A teasing inch at first. A suggestion of what’s to come. And then his mouth is on mine, pulling me under once again. And just when I’m drugged enough, he slips his fingers all the way in, circles them to ignite the nerves within, and rubs his thumb with a hint of touch over my clit.

My hips buck at the onslaught of sensation. Tongue. Fingers. Thumb. His groan. My plea for more. Then it starts all over again. A slow build up. A soft seduction of my nerves. A murmur of praise. An assault of pleasure.

The orgasm surprises me. It sounds stupid but it feels so very different from what I’m used to. A slow surge of warmth. A tensing of muscles. Hayes’s name on my lips as the wave rises and pulls me in its unexpected undertow. Drowns me in the surge of pleasure and a wash of desire. My muscles pulse around his fingers as his thumb continues to circle over my clit. My fingernails dig into his biceps and hips twist in pleasurable pain.

I’m still lost in the orgasmic fog, still on the high from it when he withdraws his fingers from me and brings them to my parted lips. His eyes are on mine—locked and intense—when he coats my lips with my own arousal. I draw in a shaky breath as he slowly leans forward and runs his tongue over the path his fingers left. The moan he emits is sex personified.