Huge Deal - Lauren Layne Page 0,67

never hated clothes as much as right now, and before he could think through the wisdom of it, his fingers inched beneath the hem of her T-shirt, finding the bare skin of her smooth stomach.

As far as touches went, it was a chaste one, but they both moaned.

His hand stilled, and his eyes flew open as he lifted slightly, breathing hard as he looked down at her.

Kate’s eyes fluttered open a moment later, her gaze as dazed as he felt.

“I don’t know if I can keep this PG,” he admitted, brushing a brief kiss over her mouth. As though proving his point, her lips moved against his, warm and clinging and passionate, and the kiss went from chaste to hot in the span of a heartbeat.

“So don’t,” she whispered, then bit his lip.

His fingers clenched against her waist once more before he groaned and tore himself away, rolling onto his back with a rueful laugh. “Jesus. I feel like a horny teenager.”

Kate lifted her head. “Why’d you stop?”

The vulnerability in her voice clawed at him, and he knew she was thinking about his careless words from years earlier. Words he didn’t remember saying, hadn’t even meant. Hardly irresistible.

Fucking moron. She was beyond irresistible.

And he was beyond hard.

He rolled toward her. “I stopped because I was about five seconds away from screwing you in the middle of Central Park.”

Her wide smile surprised him. Delighted him.

“Screwing?” Kate said, her tone amused. “There’s a word I never imagined hearing from Kennedy Dawson’s mouth.”

“What?”

“The word screw to describe sex. It’s just so delightfully improper.”

He frowned, not particularly enjoying how amused she looked at the thought of him and sex in the same sentence. “What word did you think I used?”

She pursed her lips and considered. “Coitus?”

“Christ.” He turned his head back to stare up at the sky.

“Copulation?” she guessed again.

“Stop.” His eyes closed in bemused dismay.

“Fornication? I don’t know. I just picture you being very polite and proper and tidy about the whole process.”

His eyes opened. Screw the picnic.

Kennedy sat up and picked up the thermos and cups, shoving them back into the bag, along with everything else he’d already unpacked.

“Hey!” She sat up in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Kennedy stood, then reached a hand down to her. “Up.”

She ignored the hand and scowled at him. “I thought we were having a picnic in the park.”

“I’ve got something better in mind.”

25

Sunday, May 19

They barely made it inside his apartment before six years of wanting this man took over.

The second his door closed, Kate’s fingers found the front of his shirt, his perfectly pressed, never ever wrinkled shirt, and she bunched it between her fingers. Her eyes locked on his, seeing the same heat she felt mirrored in his dark gaze as she slowly, purposefully pulled his mouth down to hers.

Kennedy bent his head, closing the distance of their considerable height difference, and the second his mouth touched hers, he took control. One hand pressed the center of her back, the other cupped the back of her head as he spun her around and pressed her back against the front door, his mouth never leaving hers.

He slipped a hand beneath her shirt, his thumb flicking teasingly over the clasp of her bra before moving to her waist, his fingers pressing hot into her skin.

Kate’s nails dug into his shoulders, and his fingers tightened in response before sliding to her hips and holding her still. For several delicious minutes, he did nothing but kiss her—long, drugging kisses that left her helpless with want.

When she thought she couldn’t take any more, she broke the kiss on a gasp. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Later,” he said, his mouth moving to her throat as he maneuvered her shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside.

He bit her bare shoulder, and she gasped.

“Still think I’m proper?” he ground out.

Before Kate could register what was happening, she was over his shoulder and being hauled out of the entryway. Not carried, Gone with the Wind style. Hauled, Neanderthal style. It was single-handedly the most erotic moment of her life.

Or maybe not.

Because then she was on her back in the center of his bed. Kennedy Dawson’s bed. Something she’d fantasized about more times than she cared to admit, even to herself.

But before she had time to register that it was finally happening, that his bedding was as pristine and wrinkle-free as she’d thought, though crisp hotel white and not the dark gray she’d imagined, he was pulling his shirt over his