Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(66)

He nods and slides his fingers into my hair, angling my head closer and taking my bottom lip between his. His hand slides down my back, drawing me even closer until our chests touch, and I’m on fire from the brush of our bodies together. As much as I told him he had no right, his possessiveness turns me on, and I’m deepening the kiss, desperate for as much of him as I can have.

“I missed you,” he confesses into the kiss.

The words fist my heart, squeeze. I nod my agreement, needing to be close. Wanting more intimacy. Craving more trust between us. I hop up onto the table beside him. Curiosity is clear in his eyes. It turns to lust when I slowly work the silk dress up my thighs.

“Chantilly lace,” I say, tracing the intricate pattern of the tattoos ringing the tops of my thighs. “There were these stockings in a little shop in Paris. At the top was the most exquisite lace I’d ever seen. No way I could afford it, so I took a picture and had it inked here.”

I study the scrolls mimicking the lace pattern. The bands aren’t very wide. “I kept them really high in case I ended up hating them so no one would be able to see.”

“They’re beautiful.” He traces the intricate pattern with one finger. His knuckle brushes against my panties, and I lose my breath. He glances up at me sharply. “I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “I should probably go.”

I grab his finger, staring at the contrast of the ink against my skin. “Do you want to see?” I ask, my voice raspy, husky, low.

“See what?” he asks, a perplexed frown pinching between his brows.

Am I really taking this step? Stepping off a building and believing I can fly? Do I have faith in the man I’m getting to know and care about? Can I trust him? Can I trust what’s happening between us?

Real faith requires bravery.

Provoked by my own words, I step off.

“Do you want to see me come?”





23





Kenan





The brazen question falls from her lips with the impact of a landslide, pelting me with a hundred responses and questions at once. She licks her bottom lip, flicking a glance at me through long, thick lashes.

“I thought you weren’t ready for—”

“I’m not, but last I checked you can come without having sex.” Her laugh is hollow. “I do it all the time.”

A deep breath expands my chest. Even the thought of seeing Lotus touch herself—of seeing her unravel that way under my hands . . . I’m seized by lust, in its grip. And I don’t need anything from her. I want her to take and take and take, and not even think about what would make me feel good. I’ve never wanted someone’s pleasure this way. To see it. To taste it. To make it.

“Are you sure, Lotus?”

“I’m sure I’d like to try,” she says softly. “The bleakness I’ve felt the last few times I had sex, the emptiness and meaninglessness, I don’t ever want to associate that with you.” She frames my face between her hands. She presses her lips to mine in a barely-there caress. “Touch me, Kenan.”

We open our mouths to each other at the same time, inviting each other in, prompted by an invisible harmony of need. I’m drawn into the heat and sweetness of her mouth—how she gasps and moans for me. She pulls back, holds my gaze, and tugs the top of her strapless dress down.

I swallow deeply at my first sight of her. The photo is gorgeous, but it can’t compare to this closeness—to the potential of touching and watching her body respond. Her warm, naked flesh stuns me, distended nipples begging for my touch and my kisses. Watching her face, making sure she’s fine, I brush my thumbs over her nipples. The breath whooshes from her, sharp and startled.

I flatten my palms against her breasts, rotating in circles that slowly build, faster until her nipples furl tight and round. Her head drops back, her hair a spill of platinum curls around copper shoulders. I caress her back, my hands meeting, overlapping at her spine. She feels so fragile. Not just the delicate bones, but the dark eyes aglow with trust as she waits for me to do what I’m longing to do. I take the pierced nipple into my mouth tenderly. God, reverently.

“Yes.” Lotus’s hands at my head urge me forward. “Please, Kenan.”

I don’t need any more encouragement. I suck, softly at first, but the taste of her, the feel of her budding and tightening in my mouth, overwhelms my good intentions. I pull her breast deeper in. I want her closer. I pull her up until she’s off the table, and I’m holding her suspended in my hands while I feed, running my tongue along the bar piercing her nipple. The texture of her in my mouth—the cool metal of the bar, the warm, turgid nipple, the silky surrounding skin—it’s almost too much. I take the other in my mouth and groan. It’s just as sweet. Just as round and responsive between my lips. Her cries grow more urgent—her hands at my head, tighter.

I set her back on the table and caress her thigh, my hand venturing up to the inked lace. She takes my hand and twines our fingers. I look up, and her eyes burn bright. Never looking away, she pushes our linked hands into her panties.

“Fuck,” I mutter. She’s warm, wet silk under my fingers. Under our fingers. The two of us together explore and stroke until her hips jerk and she bites her lip, her eyes drifting closed. She takes her hand from her panties and reaches up, running her fingers over my mouth. I lap at the wetness she’s gifted me, and groan at her flavor, addicted from one taste. I drop my head until our temples touch, my fingers still working her, and her hips still rocking a desperate, reaching rhythm.