Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(29)

Swallowing my nerves, I murmur, “Did you know…”

“Did I know what? Talk nerdy to me, Daphne.” He falls to the carpet, on his knees between my legs, running his hands up the length of my thighs. “Don’t stop.”

Up and down, up and down my thighs his palms go.

“D-did you k-know,” I gulp when he leans in, his delicious lips consuming the pulse in my neck. My heart beats wildly outside of my chest, and I struggle to catch my breath. “Throughout the course of the Battlestar Galactica series, Sheba never fires her laser pistol. Not even once.”

“Actually, I did know that.” Dexter’s nose skims idly up the column of my neck, his lips trailing along behind.

“You’re such a geek.” I breathe.

“So are you.” Up and down, up and down my thighs his palms leisurely go.

“Dexter, what are you waiting for?”

A pause. “I don’t know.”

A sigh. “Stop thinking and just do it.”

“Know what? Call me a glutton for punishment, but I kind of want…” The question purrs next to my ear. “I kind of want to hear you say it.”

That I can do.

With a tiny nod and a tilted neck, I whisper into the room, “Kiss me.”

Kiss me.

He does.

Large hands cupping my face, Dexter’s thumbs tenderly stroke my cheekbones before he lowers his mouth. Our lips connect with the very barest of contact before touching, a veritable shockwave ricocheting to every nerve ending in my body; like a tiny voltage of electricity.

Every cell tingles, every nerve quivers—and all we’re doing is kissing.

Softly at first, our kisses are small exploratory ones. Small yes, but bound to leave imprint after imprint on my heart.

I hesitate, pulling back; wanting to remember this moment forever, certain that this will be my last first kiss.

Dexter’s brows furrow, concerned, drawing his hands away. “What’s wrong?”

I grab them, holding them steady. Holding them on my flesh, not wanting to lose the connection.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I murmur. “Everything is right.”

The mattress dips when I lean in towards him, settling my lips back on Dexter’s mouth.

His lips part.

Our tongues tentatively meet in a painfully slow dance.

It’s tender. It’s sexy.

It’s torture.

Our lips press harder, tongues searching. Urgently now.

“Oh my god,” Dexter moans into me. “It feels so f*cking good kissing you.” His fingers tangle their way into my hair, running through the strands before cupping the back of my neck in his large palm. “I could kiss you forever.”

“Yes please,” I manage to whimper into his warm, open mouth. Tongues tangle, wet and delicious and positively intoxicating.

A labored groan. “Shit, we shouldn’t have started this.”

“Why?”

A deep, virile growl. “Because I won’t want to stop.”

“Then we won’t.”

“Daphne…” His lithe fingers toy with the tiny pearl button at the collar of my demure cotton shirt—the one I wore specifically to impress his grandmother—plucking at it but leaving it intact. Ugh, the tease. “My grandparents are downstairs in the…”

His voice falters when I reach between us, running my index and middle finger inside the waistband of his jeans; up the front of his rigged zipper, grasping somewhat desperately for the outline of his—

“You’re right, you’re right,” I chant. “We need to stop.”

“We need to stop,” he repeats with determination, his breathing arduous; a pearl button slides free. Then another. Then, “Stop me, Daphne.”

He tongue dampens my neck, sucking gently.

Now we’re both moaning.

Mmmm.

“Oh god Dexter, I can’t, I can’t, your hands feel too good.”

Breathing heavy, and with one last kiss to my temple, he releases me to stand. Pushing from his knees to a stand, he backs away, his fingers flex and immediately fly to run through his hair; sexual tension crackling through the air with rapid alacrity.

Without meaning to, my eyes shoot to the bulge between his thighs—to his glaringly obvious arousal.

My girly parts whimper in dismay.

I stand too, pressing my fingers against my swollen lips; they’re raw and painfully tender and wonderful. I give them a few light swipes as if to quell the pain before holding out my trembling hands.

“Look at me; I’m shaking.”

A second ticks by.

Then another.

Then another.

Then…

“Ah, f*ck it.”

We crash feverishly into each other then, my back hitting the blue wallpapered wall, shaking a nearby shelf. I don’t know who’s tugging the hem of my shirt free from the waistband of my jeans—his grasping hands or mine or both—but together, we frantically free all the buttons until my shirt’s pulled open.

Finally, blessedly ripped open.

I moan in relief when Dexter connects with my bare skin. The tips of his fingers travel up my bare stomach, his palms a tense, restrained caress against my flesh.

Over my bra. Over the swell of my breasts.

My body strains up to meet his touch.