Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(41)

I have some idea how little money he must have. I know exactly how much that would cost him.

“But—”

“Hey,” he says. “No arguments. We’re trading lives. I’m taking that on. If you’re terrified, I should be, too. But you have to do something for me in return.”

I still haven’t moved away, and I know I should. Sitting here this close to him, touching him—I’m giving him ideas. I’m giving myself ideas. Fuck, I don’t know what to do with these ideas. I have a sudden urge to slide my hand down his chest, feeling the ridge of every muscle, the whisper of short, light hairs against my fingers. I could undo his jeans. Find out precisely how much of that bulge there is fabric, and how much is him.

“What?” My throat is hoarse.

“I don’t care,” he says. “Something you wouldn’t normally do. Something risky. Something silly. Go skydiving. Buy a name-brand purse. Do something that terrifies you, something you can’t get out of your mind, that you’ve been holding back on.”

I look at my hand on his shoulder. I’ve never wanted to go skydiving. I’ve never lusted after purses. I’m just getting used to the luxury of the occasional mango. There’s really only one thing I want right now that terrifies me.

“I’m thinking of something.” My throat feels dry. “Something blindingly stupid. Risky. Idiotic.”

“Do you want to do it?”

My mouth goes dry. “Yes.”

“Then go for it,” he says.

For a second, I’m frozen in indecision. It will change everything. It will start a snowball rolling down a mountain, and I’m not sure I’ll escape the avalanche.

Still, I turn to him. I look into his eyes. My hands tremble.

“Okay,” I say, and my voice trembles, too. “Here goes.”

And before I can think better of it, I do the stupidest thing possible: I kiss him.

BLAKE

For a second, I’m too shocked to react.

I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this.

My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders.

My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear.

She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire.

Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders.

She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us.

And there isn’t—not much.

I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra.

Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand.

She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone.

If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a f*cking furnace. I pull her close.

She’s so f*cking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going.

I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now.

And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth.

She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so f*cking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch.

She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick.

“You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.”

She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.”

I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?”

She shivers.

“You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me f*cking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a f*cking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.”