Layne

The silky smooth feel of his tongue gliding across mine sends shivers down my spine. His intrinsic taste is every bit as intoxicating as that bottle of strawberry wine, except he’s much more addictive. When his calloused fingers glide across my cheek, a need greater than I’ve ever known consumes me and makes me want to beg for him to touch me everywhere.

I am safe and secure under the weight of his body, and his lips and tongue move with expert precision and determination. Even when I try to rush him and greedily take more, he won’t allow it. He keeps complete control, drawing out the pleasure, leaving me wanting—no, needing—more. My next breath is dependent upon his kiss, his touch, his taste. What I was intent would never happen again is happening right before me, but I can’t willfully stop this any more than I can willfully stop my heart from beating.

He shifts his weight and settles his hips between my legs. The sudden friction against my clit causes an intense moan to escape from my throat. His responding growl only amplifies the fire that is about to combust between us. His hips flex and his erection slides across me. My fingers curl into his shirt, my nails scrape across his skin, and my neck arches in response. Ace’s lips move down to my exposed neck as he kisses, licks, and nips at the erogenous area.

“You taste good everywhere,” he murmurs. “Your lips, your tongue, your neck. I can’t help but wonder what you taste like in other places.”

His hands find their way under my shirt, and he slowly pushes it up as he slides down. His fingers are sprawled out across my abdomen, heating my core from his mere touch. When the stubble from his faded beard scrapes across my stomach, my hands instinctively jerk to his head and my fingers glide through his light brown hair. He pulls my skin through his teeth, sucking it into his mouth, and then laving the area with his warm tongue.

“Mmm, the more I taste you, the better it gets,” he hums against my skin.

He lifts his eyes to look at me. Looking for permission? He has it, whatever he wants to do to me. Town gossip be damned. I don’t care what they think of me, how easy they think I am, or how jealous they are that he’s here with me. Not one of them has walked in my shoes, has felt what I’ve felt, or has been hurt in the way that I’ve been hurt—because none of them is me.

“Ace,” I beg with one word. A one-syllable, one-word plea.

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