Brilliant. Father made me study the great “romantics.” While Anna was memorizing Bible verses in Sunday school, I was memorizing Shakespeare and Byron, and any other rubbish that might get me into girls’ knickers.
I flick off the television and go to Anna’s bed, opening her book as I lie down. I wonder if she’ll be impressed with my skills. I am English, after all. I flick through the pages, and Anna sits as far away as possible. Hm. I’ll need to remedy that. I land on the sonnets but am quickly distracted when Anna begins to unbraid her hair. With each wavy strand that is freed from its binding, the book and all of our surroundings disappear.
Anna Whitt’s hair is bloody amazing. It’s a sin she keeps it held back all the time. It’s like heavy, golden silk falling around her, and her face is in absolute bliss as she runs her hands through it.
Must touch it . . .
Hot, raging longing fills my every cell. Blood pumps so fiercely in my ears that I cannot hear the beast pawing the ground, but I know it is, because I’m salivating. When she glances at me I quickly look down. I think she might’ve caught me.
She flicks through some pages and I can’t make out what she’s muttered.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
I’m afraid she’s about to order me off her bed, but instead she goes on about the summer poetry assignment. Passion is spouting from her pores and I sit up. I can’t wait to throw my poetic genius at her.
She goes on and on, oblivious of her own beauty as she waves her fists and purses her lips in indignation. “The beauty of poetry is that it can mean different things to different people at different times. . . . It’s wrong to dissect poetry like this!”
She throws down her paper, breathing hard, and I suddenly cannot recall a single line of poetry I’ve memorized. All I can think about is touching her. Taking a chance that she might slap the shit out of me, I cup her face, surprised how hot her soft cheek is in my hand.
But she doesn’t smack my hand or move away. She stares at me, and I stare back.
This girl.
I am no match for her.
“Seriously,” she whispers. “You’re doing that bedroom-eyes thing again.”
Bloody right I am.
All at once we’re both crossing the space, crashing in a blaze of lips, ready and seeking, needing and wanting. God, it’s that epic feeling again. Like I will die if we can’t devour each other and become one. I’m awash in her pear and freesia scent. It tantalizes my every sense.
Our mouths embrace. I’m losing myself, just as I did the other night, and I can’t stop it from happening. This is like no lust I’ve ever experienced. It is all-consuming the way her tongue licks at mine, greeting, teasing, inviting me in further. And so I go.
She kicks her school things to the floor, and I know this is happening.
I must have more of her.
My mouth pulls away, landing on the slight saltiness of her neck. The moan she lets out swells inside my ears and I am flipping her, cradled so perfectly by her legs, ready to own her. There’s hunger in her dark eyes as she feels me pressing on all the tender places where no other bloke has ever been. She’s gasping and making the sexiest little noises.
I’m surprised when Anna starts to pull my shirt up, but I quickly help, reaching over my head, grabbing it and yanking it off. I go for the top button on her shirt, and when she doesn’t stop me I hurry through them, desperate to see and feel as much of this girl as I can. Her shirt and undershirt are finally off in a flick of arms. I’m all but growling as my chest and stomach touch hers, hot and smooth, and our mouths meet once more. I want to savor every moment. She feels incredible underneath me, skin to skin.
The feel of her hands grasping at me—knowing she wants me as I want her—is incredible. I am going to take my time with her, and it’s going to take all night.
And then I remember with a pang of disappointment. “What time will Patti be calling?”
“Not for an hour,” she whispers.
Far too soon. “That simply is not going to be enough time.” I don’t want any distractions, but I’ll take what time I can