Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(44)
“Chloe?” Red nudged, his little frown returning. She wanted to smooth it out with her fingers.
“What?” she asked faintly.
Gigi appeared helpfully on her shoulder and said, “Don’t mumble, darling. Nice big voice. Repeat after me: ‘I want to ride you like a stallion.’”
Dani appeared on Chloe’s other shoulder and drawled, “Don’t forget to say, ‘Please.’”
A tiny, phantom Eve joined the fray and said, “Don’t listen to those two. Actions speak louder than words. Jump him.”
“You’re too hot,” Red said.
“I’m not.”
He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. The contact sent a jagged shock of arousal through her. She didn’t mean to react, but her next inhale came rather sharply—so sharply she made a soft, hungry sound. And he noticed. Oops. After a pause, he caught her chin and turned her to face him, which was unfair, because staring straight ahead had been her only coping strategy. His gaze unraveled her expertly in approximately 2.3 seconds. She saw the precise moment that he realized she was a breathless, horny little demon with a ridiculous crush on him. His eyes widened slightly, as if she’d shocked him witless.
Then those spring-green irises heated, were slowly swallowed up by dark pupils. He sighed, almost shakily. He leaned closer and bent his head until his brow rested against her temple, skin on skin, technically chaste. And yet, it felt so reckless, so charged, so shockingly intimate. His hair was a curtain cutting the both of them off from reality, silk swinging softly against her cheek. The scent of him, warm and earthy and comforting, imprinted itself in her mind, forever associated with this moment. This trembling, achingly close moment when they breathed, deep and desperate, in sync.
Once upon a time, Chloe remembered, she had absolutely loved sex.
“So, it’s like that,” he murmured, the words almost tender, sinking into her skin.
“No.” Her voice was a ragged whisper, broken by sharp inhalations. She was drinking down his presence before he could take it away.
He laughed softly, each puff of air a kiss to her sensitive throat. “You are such a shitty liar.”
“True.” She closed her eyes. The way he drew her in, from his smile to his confidence to his honest charm … this attraction was forceful and unexpected, a riptide lying in wait beneath the smooth surface of her own mind. Now she’d sunk a bit too deep and been snatched under.
She wasn’t sure which way was up anymore.
He found the fingers she’d tangled up in fleecy fabric and eased them gently apart, which was a relief, because she’d been in danger of clenching her fists hard enough to hurt herself. It took her a second to realize that he was holding her hand. She could feel his cool, dry palm against her clammy one, right up to the point where her wrist supports covered her skin. He was holding her hand. He was lacing their fingers together carefully, as if to connect them. Why?
She didn’t know how to ask, and since she liked it, asking seemed silly anyway. He might come to his senses and let go. She might come to her senses and pull away. Far better to keep quiet.
He kissed her jaw. Softly, so softly, but she still whimpered.
He’d been so slow and languid, but at the sound of that whimper, everything about him tensed. He murmured roughly, “I like that,” and brushed his lips over her skin again, as if to tease out more sound. Her nipples tightened, but she swallowed her breathy sigh. So he tried harder, though it felt lighter. His tongue flicked her earlobe, traced the shell of her ear. She moaned. He made a low, raw noise of satisfaction and held her hand tighter, as if he were sinking, too, and he needed something to cling to.
She was dissolving like sugar in hot tea. Her breaths were shallow, her temperature was rocketing in a way that had nothing to do with her outfit, and her desire was a drumbeat pulse pounding between her legs. Her pussy was so swollen it felt like a fist clenched between her thighs. She was coming apart at the seams. Thank her lucky stars that all he’d done so far was tease, because if he really bit into her the way she wanted him to, she might faint dead away.
If he really bit into her the way she wanted him to, she might bite back.
And then what? Would he strip her naked, shag her senseless, and see her on Saturday night to continue the list? She didn’t know. She didn’t know. What did it mean, when a man you made deals with and sent slightly flirtatious emails to licked your ear and held your hand? What did it mean? It certainly wasn’t professional, or transactional, or simple. Not in her case, anyway. She was quite sure of that.
He slid a hand over the back of her neck, warm and solid and deliciously firm. Sensation spiked between her legs. “Chloe,” he said, his voice like gravel. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”
He turned her on so badly she felt dizzy. She couldn’t look at him, because she knew what she’d see: living, breathing sex, a man who could so easily make a mess of her. She was melting for him and they barely knew each other. She wanted to sob out her pleasure and he’d barely done anything to cause it. She. Was. Losing. Control.
She made herself whisper, “Stop.”
He obeyed her the same way he did everything: calm, easy, as though it had been his idea. His mouth left her skin before she’d even finished speaking the word. The warmth of his proximity faded and she knew he’d pulled back. He squeezed her hand once before he let go.