Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,82
words.
“Maybe we should—” I try again, before my words are swallowed up.
He only kisses me harder.
“—talk—”
He sucks lightly on my lower lip, until I feel the scrape of teeth against sensitive skin, and my mind gets a little foggy.
“—about this,” I breathe, my fingers digging into his biceps when he gently bites down, tugging on my bottom lip with his teeth. It feels so good, my mind literally frazzles into static.
Why do I want to stop this, again?
“Chase…”
I gasp out his name, my voice filled with want, and at the sound, he breaks the kiss. I should be happy, considering I’m the one insisting we talk, but as soon as he pulls back, all I can think is Really? The man who ignores almost every protest out of my mouth chooses this moment to start listening?
I want to slap myself across the face for ever suggesting we talk. My body doesn’t want to talk. And, from the look in Chase’s eyes, neither does he. They’re dark with passion — darker than I’ve ever seen, the green in his irises almost black in the dim light of the bedroom.
We’re both panting hard, our faces so close, I can feel his breath against my lips. I open my mouth to speak, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what I wanted to say to him, what I felt was so important we discuss at this exact moment in time. In fact, all I can think is that right now, I want his lips back on mine and his body pressed as close as possible, kissing me until I forget to worry about my life and just live it.
He stares at me for a long moment, reading the expression on my face, and whatever he sees there makes his eyes get lazy with heat. My stomach flips at the sight, trepidation and anticipation stirring in my veins. Closing the space I’ve created between us, he strokes our noses together and aligns our lips, so I can feel each word as they rumble through his chest and out his mouth.
“Gemma…” His voice is rough, stripped of patience. “We’ve done enough talking.”
His mouth closes over mine again, and this time, I don’t fight it. I let him kiss me, devour me, until there’s nothing left in the world except him and me, here in this dark room — two people utterly and completely wrong for each other… and yet, somehow, so totally right.
His hands slip beneath the t-shirt, callused fingers exploring my back, caressing the bare skin there. It feels so good, my whole body arches against his, and I can’t stop the satisfied sigh that slides up my throat, past my lips, into his mouth. Lips never breaking contact, he swallows the sound and, before I can recover, his tongue slides inside to stroke mine. That single brush is all it takes to shatter what little restraint I’d been clinging to.
It’s a shot of pure oxygen into the embers of slow-burning passion that have been smoldering between us for the past week. In seconds, we’re set ablaze — fiery, fierce, burning up with it. My hands trace his torso, greedily exploring every stretch of bare skin within reach as his grip tightens on my back. I scrape my nails against his chest, reveling in the feeling of his muscles contracting, and Chase groans low in his throat in response.
Enjoying the way my touch affects him, I grin against his mouth, though my time with the upper hand is short lived — he flips over so fast I barely see him move, rolling me onto my back and settling above me before I can protest.
Not that I’d want to.
His weight presses me into the bed, a solid wall of heat, stealing the breath from my lungs without crushing me. I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly my t-shirt is gone — whipped over my head and tossed across the room before I’ve even seen Chase move. My thoughts blink out like a light bulb with a faulty fuse as soon as my bare chest brushes his. Every sense except touch goes dull — eyes unfocused, ears buzzing — as though my body is so overloaded by the sensation of his skin against mine, I can’t process any other sensory input. His lips drop to my neck, planting kisses along my throat, and the buzzing between my ears grows so loud, it drowns out my heartbeat.