Surrender (Careless Whispers #3)(57)

He gives me this heavy-lidded stare that is all sex and hunger and that does all kinds of crazy things to my body, warming it all over, driving my motivation, my desire for him. My lips find the line right above his pajama bottoms and I trail my tongue back and forth, while my hand lightly strokes over his already thick shaft through the thin cotton material. Just the idea of pleasing him this way, of him completely letting go for me, as I have for him, has my nipples aching and my sex clenching.

But before I can lead him down that road his hands come down on my shoulders and he lifts me to my feet, turning me and pressing me against the wall. “We’re equals,” he says, snagging the hem of my shirt, his shirt. “Which means you have on too many clothes.” He caresses the cotton slowly up my body, his hands now warm on my skin, branding me in a way only he can, his touch radiating through me. My breasts are heavy, nipples tight, and my thighs slick.

Finally, he pulls the shirt over my head, tossing it aside, and while my unbound breasts had not been ideal for dancing, the hot swipe of his stare, followed by his hands, prove them quite ideal. He strokes my nipples, tugs and then thumbs them until I am panting, aching. Then, he repeats exactly what I had done moments before. His eyes find mine, and he lowers himself to one knee, anticipation burning through me.

“I wanted to do things to you,” I say, wondering how I lost the chance to please him for once.

He gives me a steamy look. “You can. You will. I just can’t stop thinking about how you taste.” As if those words weren’t enough to melt me, his lips find my belly, as mine had his, but there is no me pulling him to his feet. His tongue flickers, licks, teases. He takes his time. He builds anticipation that is killing me.

“Kayden,” I plead, and demand.

This must be what he was waiting for, because he drags my leggings down my hips, and doesn’t stop there. They are at my ankles and then over my ballet slippers in a few blinks. He tosses them away and then looks up at me, his hands wrapped over the pink ribbons at my ankles. “The slippers stay,” he says, and when he looks at me, there’s a message in his eyes that he wants me to read.

I think . . . he’s telling me that the person I am when I dance stays with us. I’m not just an agent. And I have officially never been so willingly naked for any man, ever.

He begins trailing his palms up my calves, goose bumps rising in their wake, every inch seducing me, like he seduces me. But the moment he’s at my thighs, about to touch me where I need him to touch me the most, the music changes. While it’s changed several times before, this song, Tim McGraw’s “Live Like You Were Dying” has a meaning that renders us immobile.

At any moment, we can die. Any moment, we can lose each other. We both freeze, our eyes locking and holding, the words speaking to us about past losses and fears of more to come: “I hope you get the chance to live like you’re dying.” That line, which is all about living right now in case you die tomorrow, jolts me. It must jolt Kayden, too, because he stands up, his hands tangling in my hair, his stare meeting mine, a million words in his eyes that all land in one silent place: I can’t lose you.

A moment later he is kissing me and I am kissing him, and we are wild, hot, desperate. In stark contrast to last night’s slow, seductive lovemaking we are all over each other, touching, licking, biting. And it isn’t long until his pants are gone and he’s lifting me, the thick, hard length of him pressing inside me, all the way inside me. He holds me. I hold him. All my weight is on him, our bodies melded close, my face in his neck, my nostrils inhaling that delicious scent of him I never want to stop smelling.

I lose everything but him, and this, and I don’t even know where we start and end.

When it’s over, he turns and leans me against the wall, and despite the fact that his legs have to be exhausted, he doesn’t put me down. “No one is taking this from us, or taking you from me. You have my word.”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” I warn again. “Don’t put that pressure on yourself or us. Let’s just spend every day like this. Let’s live—”

“Like we’re dying,” he says, his forehead finding mine.

“Yes,” I whisper, my fingers curling around his jaw. “Live like we’re dying.”





fourteen




After Kayden and I have showered, we both coincidentally dress in black jeans, boots, and T-shirts. I’m not sure what that says about his mood, considering our amazing morning, but I’m shifting gears, moving from pink slippers to Warrior Princess, should I need to be her. And, I just want to be sure Blake Walker takes me seriously. He needs to hear what I say to him. He needs to protect Sara.

By noon we’ve joined Marabella in the kitchen and she is all about stuffing our faces with pancakes, and filling our cups with delicious frothy coffee.

“I need to hit the gym. I can’t keep eating like this.” I look at Kayden. “Maybe we should come up with a routine. We go in the morning before we do anything else?”

He sips his coffee, his gaze warm, a wayward strand of light hair brushing his brow. “A routine would be good.”

“A routine for Kayden,” Marabella says, hands on her robust hips, and ironically, her dress a pale ballerina slipper pink.

“We could continue exactly as we did this morning,” he offers, mischief in his voice.