Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(21)

Long seconds of Abby’s studying his face had passed, as if she could discern what was taking place in his head when even he didn’t have a f*cking clue. Those eyes were obscured a moment by her eyelashes, and Russell could feel that gaze move over his erect cock where it tented his jeans, then shoot back up. He expected surprise, maybe more confusion. Instead, he got relief and excitement. No. Not that. He couldn’t handle that.

Her sweet, ripe tits rose and fell on a shudder. “I’m sorry I used the situation to my advantage, Russell. It was wrong of m—”

He kissed Abby. Abby. He . . . kissed Abby. Sensation exploded in his head like an atom bomb, incinerating everything in its path. No, not everything. Only the negative, replacing it with optimism, relief, elevating him above anything that could touch him beside her. That’s how good—how right—she tasted. Like a beast that had been chained for centuries, and the second those imaginary chains fell away, he attacked without hesitation. Stopping now was a hysterical notion because her arms were around his neck, her body flattened against the wall . . . by him. Yeah, that was him grinding every inch of himself to her, branding her, imprinting the pattern of his muscles and flesh on Abby. He was kissing Abby.

The resonance of her name cut a path through the ringing in his skull. If he continued kissing her like this, her virginity would be as good as gone. Even now, her inexperience showed, her tongue testing itself against his. A tentative lick that almost sent him ejaculating against the fly of his jeans. He moaned into her mouth, telling himself one more minute, just one more.

Better make it count. Russell gripped a fistful of her hair and rotated it, wrapping the long strands tight and forcing her head back. With his other hand, he urged her chin lower so he could invade her mouth deeper, get another one of those self-conscious touches of her tongue because f*ck they were perfection and misery all rolled into one. She gave one to him—yes, God—and he felt the stroke in his dick, as if that pulsing part of him were inside her mouth, rather than his tongue. A vision of Abby on her knees gave him no choice but to press her harder against the wall, lest he urge her to the floor. Goner . . . he was a goner.

He felt her hand flatten against his chest and push, then pat pat pat. Breathe. Shit, she needed to breathe. Alarm managed to break through Russell’s lust, and he broke away on a harsh groan, scanning her face to make sure he hadn’t killed her. Just one look and she killed him instead. Damp, swollen lips, face flushed pink . . . achingly beautiful. Like some untouched maiden sent into the woods to pick apples who had found herself ravaged by a wolf instead. That settled it. He’d have to sleep in the other bedroom. Abby, this moment, would never fade.

She shifted, and her belly dragged over his hard cock, ripping a growl from his throat. Her mouth fell open as if stunned by his reaction, making him frantic to kiss her again, so he banged his forehead against the wall and kept it there.

“You are attracted to me,” she murmured, voice husky in a way he’d never heard it . . . and tinged with that same relief he’d glimpsed in her expression before. Why the hell was she surprised by his wanting her? Didn’t she realize he’d walked out of her bedroom because it was for the best? Slapping her ass hadn’t been enough of a hint that he didn’t know a damn thing about being with a virgin? Or . . . making love? He wasn’t the kind of man she deserved. His tastes in bed were only one part of why he couldn’t make her happy. So maybe she needed a reminder. One that would leave no question unanswered.

“Abby, attraction is a weak-ass term for what’s going on here. It doesn’t begin to describe what I’d like to do to you.”

“Wh-which is?”

He placed his mouth against her ear, the truth coming out on a rush of breath. “I’d like to bang your little virgin brains out.”





Chapter 8



OH. OH, BOY.

Longing moved like smoke in Abby’s middle, wafting lower and growing dense. She should have slapped him across his face for saying those words, but some female intuition that had been sorely lacking in her life until this point stayed her hand, telling her a slap was exactly what Russell wanted. He expected her to be horrified and run from the house like a scandalized church girl. Too bad she wasn’t budging. Because the same way she’d always appreciated Russell’s rough-around-the-edges attitude toward her—the way he treated her like no one had ever dared—she liked the way he’d just spoken to her. A lot.

The evidence that Russell wanted her dug into her belly, no less big and swollen than when they’d been kissing. Seriously, could what they’d just done even be termed a kiss? Mouths participated in a kiss, whereas Russell had made it into a full-contact sport, rubbing their bodies together like he meant to start a fire with the friction, exploring her mouth as if he’d been starved for it.

Had he? His hot, rapid breaths against her neck told her . . . yes. This man she had so many confusing but exciting feelings for wanted her back. A wealth of shiny bubbles sailed through her chest. This was good news, right? Why had he stopped kissing her? She’d caught her breath and wanted more, darn it. But his posture was that of someone heading for the gallows. If he needed encouragement, she was all too ready to provide it. When he’d left her Monday night, her body hadn’t been ready to say good-bye. Neither had her mind. Both were tired of being in the dark about the unknown, so much that the unfulfilled ache worsened with each passing day.