The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient #2)(48)

Holding his breath, he did what he’d been yearning to do forever. He cupped her full breasts in his palms. And she let him. His thumbs registered the hard points of her nipples through her dress, and he stroked her, exhaling shakily when her eyes went hazy and she bit her bottom lip. He was ninety percent sure she liked that.

What else did she like? Could he make her feel as good as he felt right now? He was determined to try. He needed to please her. He needed that more than anything.

His mouth found hers again, and his mind went fuzzy. She overwhelmed his senses, made it impossible to think. There was only her strawberry taste, the silk of her skin, the curves filling his palms, and the softness that pressed against him every time his hips rocked into her.

Between kisses, she whispered, “Bed. Kh?i. Now.”

Bed.

Sex.

Esme.

His body hardened to the point of pain, and he released her lips and pressed his forehead to hers, taking a moment to cool down and relearn how to use his brain. People told him he was smart. He should be able to figure out how to get them to a bed. It was a regular mundane task. It shouldn’t seem so impossible. Break it into steps.

He unlocked the door, giving himself an extra point when he remembered to put his keys in his pocket, opened the door, and then picked her up.

She laughed as he carried her into the house. “I can walk. I’m better.”

“I like holding you.”

Her eyes met his. Her lips didn’t curve, but he felt like she was smiling. She was silent the rest of the way to his room. After he placed her in the center of his bed, she sat up, put his book on his nightstand, and slipped the high-heeled shoes off her feet, letting them drop to the shag carpet. Her necklace and other jewelry came off next. Then she curled her legs beneath her and watched him with heated eyes.

After a moment, he realized she was waiting. For him.

He took his shoes off—something he’d never done in his bedroom because he did it at the front door. He’d probably left a trail of street grime through his house. Before that could disturb him too much, he shook his head, shrugged out of his suit coat, and sat on the bed. Without meaning to, he’d put an arm’s length between them, a safe distance.

She considered that empty space for a second before she looked him in the eyes, grabbed hold of her dress, and pulled it over her head, completely obliterating him.

In a split second, she redefined perfection for him. His standards aligned to her exact proportions and measurements. No one else would ever live up to her.

Beautiful woman, beautiful sculpted breasts and dusky nipples, beautiful thighs. She wore the same white cotton panties from the night of the first wedding. He could tell by the little bow at the waistband. Either that, or she had several just like it. Did women buy underwear in packs of six like men did? The image of six white panties with six little white bows flashed in his mind.

That little bow fascinated him. He wanted to touch it. And her legs, her skin, all of her. Her breasts, definitely her breasts.

“Your turn.” The husky edge to her voice had an almost tactile quality, and the hairs on his body stood on end.

His mouth was too dry to form words, so he nodded. He felt like he was shaking, but his hands were steady as he undid his tie and unfastened the buttons of his shirt. It was the look on her face, the way she watched every movement. To him, his body was just … his body, this thing he lived inside of. Seeing himself from her eyes was a new experience.

When he took his shirt off, her lips parted on a quick draw of breath. When he removed his pants, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, her gaze roamed over him. His skin heated everywhere she looked, his chest, his arms, his belly, his legs.

She swept a hand through her long hair and bit a fingertip, and the air gusted from his lungs. Unable to resist any longer, he got to his knees and edged closer, closer. Half an arm’s length. A quarter. Their bodies pressed together, skin to skin for the first time.

He’d grappled with men. That was a deliberate, non-light kind of touching, and acceptable. He knew what it was like to have someone against him—two matched planes bruising and punishing, one slip and he ended up in a choke hold.

This was nothing like that. Esme didn’t smell like gym socks and man sweat, and her curves fit into his hollows, soft to hard, smooth to rough, the perfect debit to his credit. It hardly made sense when she was so much smaller than he was. He could overpower her in two seconds. But he never wanted to do that.

Her hot breath heated his neck, and he tipped her head back so he could see her face. Slumberous green eyes gazed at him, and her parted red lips seared away whatever remnants of resistance he might have had. He took her mouth, stroked his tongue deep, and she kissed him back just as fiercely.

He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He touched her everywhere as he mapped out her body in his mind. The ripe curves of her ass, the smooth glide of her back, her breasts. He groaned as her stiff nipples grazed against the centers of his palms. They seemed to be crying for his mouth, and before he knew it, he was sucking a hardened tip into his mouth, rolling it against his tongue, crushing her to the bed, lost in her. Her legs parted to make room for his hips, and he shuddered as he rocked against her. Friction, her smell, the murmuring sounds she made, pure heaven.

“Now, Kh?i.”

He didn’t understand the words. He couldn’t stop rubbing himself against her.