The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,203

shuts off.” Her voice is quieter than it was before. “I talk a lot. I think a lot. I write a lot.”

“Ayla.” I shush her, my lips drawing closer to hers. Her heartbeat pulses against my palm as I guide her mouth closer. Her floral perfume fills my lungs, and though it’s a scent I’ve never smelled before, it feels like coming home. Shoving all the noise, all the thoughts and feelings from my mind, I punish her with a biting kiss, my fingers tangling in her hair. Inhaling the air she releases as she melts against me, it hits me that she’s the first woman I’ve kissed since Damiana.

There’s freedom in this kiss, freedom like I’ve never tasted before.

My hands fall to her hips, then slide beneath the hem of her shirt, cupping her waist. Her kisses are patient and sweet, a harsh contrast against all the things I’m going to do to her. Ayla’s hands glide from my biceps to my shoulders where they rest as she presses her body against mine.

“You’re good at this,” she says, breathless and fighting a smirk as she comes up for air.

“I know.”

I cup her perfect, pointed chin, directing her mouth back to where it belongs, and I crush her lips with another kiss, our tongues gliding against one another.

Pulling her shirt over her head, I toss it to the side and move for her bra. She doesn’t stop me. In fact, I swear I feel her lips arch against mine.

She likes.

With a single move, I unsnap the back of her bra, and she lets it fall off her shoulders, then to the floor. The creamy skin of her breasts mixed with their round, perfect handful size is a combination I’m powerless to resist. Gripping her sides, I lift her to the slick marble top of the kitchen island.

“This is insane,” she whispers. “You know that, right? Normal people don’t do this.”

“Normal people are boring.” I take the rosy bud of her nipple between my lips, sucking, then biting until she moans for more. Her fingers bury in my hair, her nails digging into my scalp, and it feels so fucking right.

Pressing my mouth against her soft skin, I trail kisses down her collarbone, between her breasts, then to her lower stomach, which caves in response to my touch.

My cock strains against the inside of my sweats, begging to be freed, aching for that mouth of hers. Reaching for her leggings, I peel them down her sides and slide her shoes from her feet, letting them drop. She isn’t wearing panties. Did she know I was going to fuck her on my kitchen island this morning?

Her pussy glistens under the dim morning light. She’s wet. All I had to do was kiss her and she’s fucking wet.

I knew she wanted to fuck me.

Lowering my mouth between her thighs, I spread her legs wide and drag my tongue along her seam. She exhales, three jagged little breaths, and leans back, propped on her elbows. Her taste is sweet, addictive, and I peer up, past her swollen breasts, watching how she nibbles her bottom lip as she anticipates my next move.

Plunging two fingers inside her pussy, my cock grows harder the second I realize how goddamn tight she is. Fucking her with my fingers and devouring her with my tongue and watching her wriggle and writhe as I take control of her body makes me harder for her, hotter for her.

Running my hand along her side, I reach for her wrist, pulling her up. Her close-mouthed smirk is uninhibited, her coppery eyes wild, and she slides off the counter, naked, her body brushing against mine, and she smiles when she feels the outline of my throbbing cock.

Her fingers tuck behind my waistband, and our eyes lock as she slides my clothes down my legs and to the floor, dropping to her knees to place the tip between her full lips.

“Oh, god.” I exhale, reaching for her hair and grabbing a fistful as she sucks and licks my length until my eyes roll to the back of my head. “Keep going, baby. God, you’re good at this.”

She sucks harder, faster, pumping my shaft in her palm and generously taking her sweet time. She’s good. She’s really fucking good. But I still want the real thing.

Reaching into a neatly organized junk drawer to my left, I pull out a rubber from my pre-engaged days and slip the packet between my teeth, tearing it open.

“Get up,” I