You Promised Me Forever (Forever Yours #1)(48)

Forget finessing her into my bed. Taking it slow. Seducing her. I want her right here, right now. Tug her pants down, shove the Atlas Wellness Center polo off, and fuck her in the kitchen. The mental image is so powerful, my cock jerks beneath the fly of my jeans, desperate to gain freedom.

“I want you,” I whisper in her ear after I break the kiss, making her shiver. “I want you so fucking bad.”

“Please tell me you have condoms,” she says, her tone urgent, her hand moving down my chest, fluttering around the front of my jeans.

“I have condoms,” I confirm, my mouth exploring the soft, soft skin of her neck. I bought a giant box off Amazon a few days ago. Thank Christ for Prime shipping. “Lots of them.”

“Thank God.” She sounds agonized yet relieved. “Maybe we should take this somewhere else?”

“Not yet.” I reach for her polo, untucking it from her black pants, catching a glimpse of bare skin. I pull the shirt up and she shifts away from me, raising her arms obediently so I can completely remove the shirt, leaving her sitting on my counter in her bra.

I take a step back so I can drink her in, and she squares her shoulders, thrusting her chest out, the black lacy bra nearly doing me in. Teen Amanda would’ve curled her shoulders, trying to hide her breasts. Her bra size was one of her biggest insecurities. As I’ve said before, though, I’m not a boob man.

I’m a leg man. And her sexy legs are currently loosely wrapped around me, her ankles digging into my backside.

She heaves an exaggerated sigh, breaking the spell I was falling under. “Stop looking and get to doing, please.”

Like she has to ask twice.





I am sort of shocked by the words that leave my mouth, but I have no shame. It’s Jordan, after all. He’s seen me at my worst and my best.

Besides, I want him too damn much to worry about anything else. The frantic need that’s building inside of me is threatening to take over. I haven’t experienced this feeling in so long—six years, to be exact—and it’s making me edgy. Shaky.

“Fuck, I like it when you’re bossy,” he confesses just before he takes my mouth in a commanding kiss.

Now, let’s be real here. I may have bossed him around just now, but it was minor. And I don’t want to be the boss. I want him in charge.

God, I love it when he’s in charge.

His agile fingers are at the back of my bra while he kisses me, undoing the hooks. The lace-trimmed cups fall from my chest, the thin straps slithering down my arms until they land at the crook of my elbows, and I shake my bra off completely, a disappointed moan leaving me when he steps away once more, contemplating me yet again.

“They’ve grown,” he murmurs, because of course he’d notice that. He was always extremely observant.

“I’m a B cup now,” I tell him proudly.

Chuckling, he reaches for my breasts, cradling them in his hands, his thumbs brushing across my nipples, making them harden. Making me tremble. “Still sensitive?”

I bite my lip, nodding.

“Still pretty too,” he says just before he dips his head and takes a lick. I tilt my head back, my hands sinking into his soft hair when he sucks my nipple into his mouth. My eyes fall closed and a whimper escapes me when he nibbles first on one nipple, then the other, alternating back and forth. Licking. Sucking. Biting. Making me want him.

Making me wet.

Truthfully? I don’t want to have sex on the kitchen counter. Not really. The marble is cold on my butt and I still have my pants on. The angle between us seems off, so I’m not quite sure how we’d fit.

But then he grips the back of my thighs and tilts my body back, pulling me into him so his erection is directly between my legs. Showing me exactly how we fit, exactly how we’d do this.

I brace my hands on the counter behind me, lifting my hips so I brush against the front of him nice and slow. He removes his mouth from my chest and shifts away from me, his blue eyes dark, his cheeks ruddy, his hair a mess.

“Teasing me?” he asks in a rumbly growl, his intense gaze never leaving mine.

Nodding, I rub against him again, pressing my lips together when I hit a particular spot that feels extra good, so I do it again. And from the way his brows lower, I know he realizes I’m hitting that spot too.

“No way are you going to come on my jeans again,” he says, reaching for the waistband of my pants. They have a drawstring, and he slowly undoes it, the black string winding around his long fingers. I watch in breathless anticipation, craving those fingers on me. In me.

I toe my shoes off, then lift my butt so he can pull my pants down my legs, leaving me in my plain black panties and white socks. Definitely not sexy. I wind my legs around his waist again, working my socks off with my big toe, and heave a sigh of relief when I’m successful. He’s staring at me again, his gaze devouring me, and he takes a step away from me so that I have no choice but to drop my legs.

“You have a condom somewhere close, right?” I ask, pressing my thighs together when he keeps watching me with that intense gaze of his.

Nodding, he reaches for me, his fingers sliding between my thighs and pushing them apart.

“You keep condoms in the kitchen?” I’m joking, but what if he says yes, as a matter of fact, I do? What if he keeps condoms in every corner of his townhouse? That would mean he’s always prepared, and I appreciate a man who’s prepared, but not if that means he’s having sex all over his house with various women.