I’m going to open that door, and he’s going to weaken me with the look. The one I can’t refuse. And he’s going to smell clean and yummy with his hair all wet and tousled.
Shitty, shit, shit. I draw in a deep breath just as Lana launches into the chorus about taking off clothes. That won’t give him the wrong idea or anything.
I slide off the bed and crack the door wide enough to slip out. Then I shut it behind me and lean against the heavy wood before lifting my eyes to his.
Damn. The hallway is dark, but his gaze is darker. Shadowy black, like a mysterious cave, luring me in with its promise of dangerous thrills and reckless adventure.
Beads of water trickle along the grooves of his chiseled chest. I want to follow those glistening trails with my tongue, around his hard nipples, down the corrugated steel of his abs, and lower, below the low-slung waistband of his workout shorts. The material is so thin I can see the long hard shape of him jerking to be released.
“Are you going to bed?” He rests a hand on the doorframe above my head and angles toward me.
“Mm hmm.” My pulse kicks up.
“I want to taste you.”
My knees wobble. “Not on our first date.”
“Remember our last first date?” He bends closer, sliding his whiskered cheek along mine and whispering into the space beside my ear. “I was inside you the entire night. We didn’t make it to the bedroom until we christened every square foot of this house.”
My thighs quiver in memory. “It has to be different this time.”
“I know.” He eases back, just enough to look at me. Or rather, my mouth. “I’ll settle on tasting your lips.”
A kiss. That’s perfectly acceptable for a first date.
Except Cole kisses like he fucks—deeply, intensely, with the most fulfilling, raunchiest, kinkiest techniques known to man, and he does it with his soul engaged while stealing every hollowed-out corner of mine.
I might die if he puts his mouth on me. I’ll surely die if he doesn’t.
“Close your eyes.” He runs his nose alongside mine, his breaths warm and minty clean.
I let my lashes flutter downward, my fingers digging against the door at my back.
The first brush of his lips stops my heart. The second caress shocks my system into a vibrating funnel of blood and desire.
He tilts his head, pressing harder, deeper, parting my mouth and sinking his tongue. I tremble and pant, wrapping my arms around his neck and meeting every tantalizing rub and lick.
His mouth is made for this, designed and sculpted to bring a woman the kind of slow-burning pleasure that melts beneath the skin and lingers like a fantasy.
Bowing into and around me, he crowds so close I have nowhere to go. But I’m exactly where I want to be as he holds me on the cusp of madness in the cradle of his body.
We kiss for an hour and a minute, tangled in the fabric of eternity. My hands slide through his hair, over his shoulders, down his biceps, palming and scratching his pecs.
He’s hard everywhere, and the hardest part of him feels like an iron bar, jabbing against my stomach. He doesn’t grind. He’s just so big and close I feel every thick inch, like an urgent plea for entry.
Then he goes wild, feverish, sucking, nibbling, and making up for lost years. The door rattles in the jamb with the press of our bodies. A picture frame falls off the wall. Friction, skin burns, bite marks… Holy lordy, what a kiss.
Eventually he edges back and lets me catch my breath. Ghosting his lips along my jaw, he pauses at my neck.
“We’ll take it from there on our next date,” he breathes against my skin. “Sweet dreams, baby.”
Then off he goes, prowling toward the basement door and vanishing behind it.
I must be every shade of aroused, staring after him. God knows, I’m a hot wet mess between my legs.
Because that kiss was perfect. The kind of kiss I can’t live without.
My heart drums a battle of emotion as I worry about how long I can draw this out.
In my bedroom, I turn off the music on my phone and open the text messages.
Trace: I’m lost without you.
Trace: You are my smile.
Trace: I never thought love was worth fighting for. Until I met you. I'm ready for war.
Trace: I miss you.
The texts came over the span of the day, letting me know I haven’t been far from his mind. I feel an overwhelming need to soothe him, so I send a quick message.
Me: I’m tucked in for the night, alone and missing you, too.
Then I turn off the light and count my blessings. I’ve been alone. Agonizingly, helplessly stuck in the isolation of mourning and depression. I’m not in that place anymore.
As impossible as my love life feels right now, it could be so much worse.
The next morning, I’m up early, showered and dressed in yoga pants and a tank top before nine o’clock. I guess going to bed before midnight has its advantages. Or disadvantages, depending on how I look at it. Celibacy and curfews aren’t things I aspire for in life.
As I roll into the kitchen, the floorboards vibrate to the tune of something rude and destructive blaring from the basement. Cole and his punk rock racket. If there’s one thing I didn’t miss about him, it would be his taste in music. I mean, I can’t dance to it, so can it even be called music?
I inch along the kitchen counter, squinting at numerous plastic containers of whey protein, keratin, L-Citrulline-whatever, and other bulk supplements. Looks like someone went shopping this morning at the steroid-man store.
Coffee’s already brewed—God love his sweet ass—and there’s even an empty mug waiting for me. I fix a creamy cup and follow the noise pollution into the basement.
I find him standing amid a pile of dumbbells with his back to me, curling some serious weight. His biceps bulge with each pump, his spine deeply cut beneath shredded muscle. If the music wasn’t so loud I bet I’d hear him hissing through each lift.
I used to watch him work out all the time. It turned him on when I did that, and he always fucked me after, slick with sweat and hard all over, right there on that weight bench.
With a sigh, I set the coffee on the bottom step and creep toward his futon. His bedding, all twisted and tangled, looks way too inviting. I snuggle in and press my nose to his pillow.
My eyes flutter closed as the scent of him—musky and manly—mixed with the spicy aroma of his shampoo saturates my senses.
The music shuts off, and I lift my gaze, colliding with his.
He braces his hands on his hips, cocking his head and panting with exertion. “Are you smelling my pillow?”
“What’s the point of pillows if you can’t stop and smell them every now and then?”
“You mean roses.”
“Roses die, but pillows are forever.” I steal another sniff and roll to my back. “I’ll take a bouquet of yours, accented with your breath. Not baby’s-breath, because that would be weird.”
“Or we could just share a pillow.” He prowls toward me. “And a bed. And body fluid.”
“You lost me at body fluid.” I feign a grimace. “You look sticky.”