The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(40)

Outside my apartment building, I debate things for a second before asking, “Do you want to come up?”

“Do you want me to?” he asks instead.

“I asked first.”

He laughs as he fiddles with my helmet. It seems to take him a long time to lock it to the back of his bike before he says, “Yeah, I want to.”

“Then come up with me,” I say.

After attaching his own helmet to his bike, he follows me into the building and up three sets of musty old stairs to my apartment. Inside, I step out of my shoes, remove his jacket, and drape it over the back of my armchair, suddenly ill at ease. I know what comes next, but I don’t know how to get us there.

“A-are you thirsty?” I ask.

“No, thanks,” he says.

“Do you want to watch TV?”

His lips quirk in amusement. “It would be different to finally watch something with you in person, but no, I don’t feel like TV right now.”

He advances toward me, and my breath catches. The way he walks, like he’s going somewhere important, appeals to me. Because he’s coming to me.

“I figured out how we need to do this the first time,” he says.

“How?”

He leans down and presses his lips to my temple, my cheek, the soft spot behind my ear. “In the dark.”

I immediately think of his self-consciousness with regard to his surgery and nod. “I’m okay with that.”

We head down the hall to my bedroom, and in the doorway, I automatically fumble around for the light switch until Quan whispers, “Let’s keep the lights off. Unless you changed your mind?”

“No, I just forgot.” I wander through the darkness, eventually bumping my knees against the cushioned side of my mattress.

I turn around to find him, and smack straight into his chest with an ooof.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yes, but this is a little awkward.”

“A little,” he agrees. “But I kind of like it, too. I get to learn a whole new side of you.”

“The clumsy side of me?”

“I’m so used to seeing you. Now I get to focus on feeling you.” His lips land on my forehead, on an eyebrow, eliciting a laugh from me, on the tip of my nose, my mouth. He sucks on my bottom lip, licks, and then claims my mouth with bold strokes of his tongue as his hands sweep over my body.

When he palms my behind and squeezes, my inner muscles clench tight, and moisture floods between my thighs. Logically, I know he won’t ease the ache in my body—there’s no way he could know how—but I want him anyway. I want his kisses, his caresses. I want him close. Most of all, I want him to want me.

My kisses acquire a wild edge. I slip my hands under his shirt and test the firmness of his stomach, his chest, his back. Even without the light, I can sense how strong he is, how fast. I am neither of those things, and I delight in our differences. When I register the hardness pressing against my lower belly, I rise instinctively onto the tips of my toes until we line up … just right.

He makes a hoarse sound and rocks against me, slowly. Sensation arrows straight to my core, and my knees buckle. He doesn’t let me fall. He holds me up, pulls one of my thighs over his hip, and rubs sinuously between my legs as he kisses me deeper. The rawness of the action, the friction, his mouth, it all overwhelms me.

I hardly notice when he settles me on the bed. I just know that our bodies are closer now. Closer is better. I push his shirt up, impatient with the layers of fabric between us, and he breaks the kiss to yank it off. Our mouths come back together like we can’t stand to be separated. I suppose that’s true, for now. I’m addicted to his kisses. And his taste, his scent, his skin. I slide my hands down his back, trailing my fingertips along his spine, luxuriating in the feel of him. When I encounter the waistband of his pants, I slip my fingers underneath and venture down, so I can fill my hands with the perfectly rounded globes of his ass. Instantly, I’m obsessed.

“You’re in trouble,” I say between kisses.

“Why?”

“Now that I know what you feel like, I won’t be able to stop touching you here. I’m going to do it all the time.” I’m being completely honest, so I don’t understand at first when he breaks out laughing, but I decide it is a little funny.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says, and even though I can’t see him, I can tell he’s smiling from the timbre of his voice. “Touch me as much as you like.”

“Anywhere?” I ask, because I remember what happened last time.

He pauses for a moment, and then the bed shifts as he moves. I hear the zip as he undoes his pants and the thud when they hit the floor. It doesn’t make sense, but I feel intensely self-conscious as I pull my dress over my head, toss it aside, and remove my underclothes.

I shouldn’t feel this way. He can’t see me. I can’t even see me. But it’s like my mind still hasn’t accepted that the darkness is real. I’m waiting for someone to judge me, my body, my actions.

He stretches out next to me and pulls me toward him so our bodies are flush together, front to front, skin to skin. The rigid length of his sex burns against my pelvis, but I ignore it.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, running his hand up my leg and over my hip.

“So do you.” I touch his face, his neck, and rest my palm against the center of his chest. “I can feel your heart beating. It’s fast. Are you nervous?”