Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(79)

“That’s not fair!” she protests, laughing. “You don’t get to kiss—”

I cut her off with my mouth over hers again, lips fitting between, coaxing her open so I can lick at her, go deeper, feel like I’m inside her in every way I can be right now.

Because now I know why she wanted my mouth on hers when I touched her. There’s an ache in my chest, clawing its way up and out of me, needing to feel her deeper, to thank her or—f*ck, I don’t know—show her what it feels like that she’s touching me like this, giving me this kind of pleasure. I rock into her hand, giving in and finally rolling on my side to face her, pulling her by the hip to face me and f*cking her fist, reaching between us to lift her leg, pull it over my hip so I can touch her, too.

So wet.

I push a finger into her, stroking her, sucking and swallowing her noises and falling into the feel of her hand on my dick, her slick skin covering my hand.

It’s sex, but it’s not.

It’s sex, but it’s more.

There are so many ways to love this girl; good God, let me find each and every one of them.

London shifts against me, rocking, rubbing, getting there and she’s close—she’s holding her breath—and when I look at her I see her eyes on me, looking back and forth between my face and where her hand grips and I f*ck into it and it’s almost like I can see her thoughts, see it telegraphed, how watching me come undone like this is going to send her falling along with me.

“Come on me?” she whispers.

It doesn’t take effort to get there. Fuck, I’ve been holding it back since the beginning of time—at least that’s what my body is screaming. I cut the control, letting it overtake me, f*cking hard and fast three, four, five more times into her fist and then everything is warm, shooting down my back, out of me, onto her. On her stomach, her hand. Over her breasts, on her arm. She stares, eyes wide, mouth opening slowly more and more until she’s crying out, riding my hand, head falling back as she comes with a staccato of sharp, relieved cries.

She goes quiet, breaths heaving as she lets her head rock forward and rest against my shoulder.

“We’re really good at that,” she whispers, and then laughs before kissing the center of my chest.

I know we’ve just finished a round, but I can’t imagine ever being done with her.

My hand moves carefully back and forth between her legs and she whimpers a little, rocking into my palm.

“Are you sore?” I ask.

I feel her hair brush against my ribs when she shakes her head no.

“London?”

“Hmm?” she hums.

I stroke my middle finger across her clit. “I really want to kiss you here.”

She arches into me, holding me closer and sliding her hands up and around my neck so she can kiss me.

So she can keep me from crawling down her body and putting my mouth on her.

“You don’t like it?” I ask against her lips.

“I like it too much,” she whispers. “I’d like it the most of anything I think you could do to me.”

I pull back, the question then why won’t you let me? perched on my tongue.

But she speaks first, whispering, “I can’t give my heart away all at once. I want to. But I can’t.”

I kiss her, and hold there while something tight works its way past my throat. “Okay.”

Her blue eyes are trained on my face. “To me, that’s the most intimate thing anyone can do.”

Nodding, I tell her, “I agree, actually.” Moving my hand up her body, I circle my wet finger around her nipple and then bend to suck her into my mouth.

It’s a mistake.

I can taste her, and already, only minutes after I’ve come on her skin, I want her again.

She feels me stir, rolling to face me and reaching for me. “But we’ve already had sex . . .” Looking up at my face, she says, “I don’t know why we aren’t doing that right now.”

I groan, watching her stroke me, feeling emotion tighten my breaths. “I just need to know it’s different.”

“You seem to feel different,” she whispers. “At least that’s what you said.”

“I mean . . . I need it to be different for you.”

London kisses me then, a slow, exploring kiss that makes my brain unravel.

She doesn’t move to climb on me, or pull me onto her, and this silent admission that she’s heard me and won’t push it is both a comfort and torture.



* * *



I FEEL DRUGGED, pulled up from somewhere low and heavy.

Her hands are on me, frantic and insistent. Pulling me over her, scratching down my back. I feel her, wet against me. The warmth of thighs around my hips. The suction of kisses on my neck.

The slick heat of her.

She gasps.

Yes.

Luke, yes.

I’m dreaming—at least I think I am until the sharp sting of her teeth on my shoulder jolts me fully awake and I realize I’m starting to push inside.

Beneath me she’s gasping tightly, asking me to move into her, to be deeper.

I’m so groggy. Her hands are on my face, pulling me close.

“Please. Luke.”

“Holy shit.” It’s all I can say, all I can think as my vision clears and I sink in. “Did you wake me up?”