Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(71)

Hands grip my biceps.

Her lips are parted, and I reach up and run my fingertips over her full bottom lip. It's pale pink, matching her nipples, and fitting in with her makeup-free face.

"Your mouth," I whisper. "It's fucking stunning."

I've inhaled her scent, made her come, made her laugh, heard her cry, and had a brief taste. But I've never kissed her mouth. I guess we've done everything backward.

I move slowly, dropping my face closer until our eye contact has to break. It feels monumental to kiss her for the first time. Grazing my lips slowly across hers, I repeat the action, soft, sliding.

Her hands squeeze my arms. Her lips open more, moving over mine in response, beginning to close and open softly, repeatedly, as if tasting me. Deciding. Then firmer like they were always meant to move with mine.

It's a game of parry and retreat, of languidly taking our time, reveling in the sensation of our lips together, and I could play it forever. But I want more, and I lick her pouty bottom lip on my next pass, getting a hint of sweetness and mint. On a sigh, her lips part and her tongue slides against mine.

The action detonates a new, fiercer wave of need through me, causing a desperate sound I've never heard before to rumble through my chest. I open my mouth farther. Dip into hers deeper. I take and taste, my tongue and my lips moving faster, thirstier, one hand holding her jaw, the other keeping my body elevated and at bay when all I want to do is slam myself against her, into her.

But she's taking from me too. Her hands are no longer holding my arms but are on my head, and she's grabbing on to me like I might take my mouth away. I have no intention of ever stopping. Kissing Emmy is delicious and addictive. It's decadent and desperate. Kissing has never been so necessary. A part of me wishes we could do nothing but this.

But every move of our mouths slips us gradually from discovery to greed. Feeding a fire. A hunger without end. And before long I can't keep my body from settling over hers. The feel of her skin against my bare chest is incredible, and we both moan at the contact. Apparently it's not close enough because she presses up against me, her hips moving against my erection.

Aware I'm still in my jeans and could hurt her, I reluctantly slow down, my mouth moves over her jaw and neck, and I bury my nose against her neck and breathe in. The elusive scent of an exotic flower and a hint of vanilla is now my drug of choice, breathing it in is what I do now, I decide. My nose follows it down between her breasts. I inhale, moving over her skin until it's too much for me not to lick a tightly budded peak of her breast.

"Oh God, Trystan, that's so good." She gasps and thrusts her chest forward, needing more. I gladly oblige, nipping, pulling, filling my hands and my mouth, sucking at the stiffening flesh.

Hot hands move over my back and shoulders, and their jerky movements tell me Emmy is as desperate as I feel.

I thought I'd take my time with her, taste more of her, get her ready, but within minutes she's whimpering, begging. "Please, Trystan. God, I need you inside me."

"Thank God." I grin, pinning her with my gaze.

She's flushed and panting hard.

"I want you so damn much. I didn't plan for this to go so fast," I admit. "Actually I didn't plan on it at all."

Her hands move down my sides and push me to roll over so she can reach the button of my jeans. "Me neither." She laughs. "You're like freaking kerosene."

Between the two of us, we manage to get my jeans undone and shoved down my legs. She sits up and uses her feet to push them the last little bit and then tugs on the waistband of my boxer briefs. Rolling onto my back I drink in the sight of her undressing me.

Christ, her tits are spectacular. Perfect. I want to remember this moment forever.

"Thank you," she says, making me realize I've spoken aloud. "Oh, Trystan." She sighs as she reveals my cock. It's stiff, swollen, needy, and it bucks under her hungry gaze. "The general really is impressive." She smirks, and then my eyes slam shut, and I arch as her hot hand closes around me and squeezes.

"Christ." I hiss the word as I feel her hot wet tongue touch the head. I grab her wrist, my other hand gripping her hair. "Don't," I say against every urge and instinct in my body that wants her hot mouth to devour me. "I've never been this ready. It'll be over." A burn of sparks is already shooting down my spine. This is insane.

I urge her to come up my body, and she does, her nipples dragging over my bare chest, which does nothing to calm the rising tide.

"Let's slow down," I manage and can't believe my own words.

She pouts. "I was thinking a quick one now and a slower one later."

Later . . . I wonder if later will even be enough, or if we'll survive the first time without going out in flames. Holding her head, I bring her in and fuse my mouth with hers again and flip her onto her back.

She squeals.

My hips settle between her legs, my cock nestled against her, and I feel how wet she is. Hot and cool. I try to talk. "I need"—her hips move and I rock in response, my body closer to its goal—"to suit up the general."

She smiles at my euphemism then bites her lip. "Do you always suit up?"

"Of course. Always." I've never, ever taken a chance of someone using it against me. I control these situations. Always. "You?"