I don’t know how the fuck you can’t see that!” His breaths are ragged, harsh against the stillness around us. “You were always mine!” he yells, then takes a moment to compose himself. “In my head”—he points to his temple, his eyes never leaving mine—“and in my heart”—his palm flattens on his chest—“you were always mine.” He inhales a sharp breath. “Since I was thirteen years old. Five fucking years. Every summer I spent with you, and every single day in between, I’ve been in love with you, Mia!” His voice breaks. “It’s always been you!”
My chest rises and falls with every breath, my pulse beating to the rhythm of every word he’s just said. Every truth he’s just declared. And every lie left unspoken.
“And now I’m standing here, pouring my fucking heart out to you, and you can’t say shit!”
“Shut up!” I hiss.
He laughs, his eyes wide in disbelief. “I can’t fucking take this—” That’s as far as he gets before I cover his mouth with mine. He’s quick to find my waist, to curl those large hands around my frame, while I stand on my toes, trying to reach every single part of him. I touch him everywhere, gliding my hands over his bare shoulders, chest, stomach, and back up again. I pull on his hair to separate our mouths, needing to fill my lungs with their life source. I gasp for air while his lips find my neck, sucking, biting, teasing. His hands move up my sides, and when his thumbs stroke the tips of my breasts through my top, I release a guttural moan that has my head throwing back in pleasure. His lips curve against my skin. “So fucking perfect,” he whispers.
I find his mouth again, my tongue sliding against his lips, begging for entrance, and when he gifts me with the taste of him, I almost fall apart in his arms. He crouches down so he can lift the bottom of my shirt. He doesn’t remove it. His hands, rough and warm, explore every inch of skin between my hip and my breast, and I subconsciously arch my back, needing his touch, offering myself to him. He pulls away, just an inch. “Where the fuck is your boyfriend now?” he murmurs, his dark, dark eyes searching mine.
“Stop talking.” I kiss him again, hands splayed against his stomach, and this time—it’s his turn to moan. It comes from deep in his throat, and it’s so fucking sexy, I feel the effects of that sound thrum against my core. And then his hands are on my ass, squeezing hard, and I’m being lifted in the air, my legs folded around him, my arms around his neck, and I don’t stop kissing him. Not for a second. I could die in his kiss. And live happily in my death. “Off,” he orders, tugging on my shirt, right before he drops me down on the mattress. I drop like a rag doll and steady myself. He’s standing in front of me, every perfect inch of him. My eyes are level with the bulge trapped in his jeans, and I reach out, undo the button, then lower his zipper. I start to tug down, but he grasps my wrist, tight, stopping me from going any further. When I look up, his eyes are half-hooded as he stares down at me, his nostrils flaring, his jaw set. He motions to my chest. “Off.”
I hesitate a moment and look around the room. The only light comes from a lamp next to the couch, and so it’s dark enough that he won’t see the stretch marks marring my hips.
“Mia,” he deadpans, and he’s losing his patience. He has a hand inside his boxer shorts, stroking his length. “Off.” It’s not an order this time. It’s a plea.
Slowly, self-consciously, I lift my shirt over my head and expose myself to him. His reaction is instant. His eyes widen, just a tad, and he bites down on his lip. I close my eyes for only one second, trying to regain some strength, and when I open them again, he’s shrugging out of his jeans, his erection tenting his boxers. It’s so fucking close, I could move my mouth one inch forward and taste him through the fabric. “Don’t,” he warns, and he must sense what I’m thinking. He cups the side of my face, holding my head up so my eyes focus on his. “You’re too fucking pure for that,” he murmurs, and then