Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,133

trailed my hands up his sides, over his sculpted chest, to wrap them around his shoulders so I could bury my fingers in his thick hair. He groaned into my mouth and put both hands on my hips, pulling me up against him while he kissed me, breaking the kiss only so that he could run his lips down the side of my neck to the curve of my shoulder, where he gently bit down.

He grabbed fistfuls of my skirt and pulled the whole dress up over my head. I was in my underwear, and the night air was cold against my skin. Jason walked me backward toward the bedroom, kissing me the entire way. His hands stayed busy, taunting, teasing, tickling every bit of me he could touch.

When we reached the bedroom, he paused, letting go of me to light a candle in a pretty mosaic votive. It shot beams of purple and blue all around the room, and the candle smelled of lavender.

“I need to see you,” he said, and then he pulled me close again. He held me still, seeming to savor the feel of my lips against his as he repeatedly fit his mouth to mine, kissing me deeply and then doing it all over again as if trying to memorize the way we fit together.

The aching need I felt for this man was becoming too insistent to ignore, and I broke the kiss and pulled him toward the bed. I wanted to feel the length of him pressed against me, his weight on top of me, and his warmth enfolding me.

I paused by the bed to help him out of his pants. We let them drop to the floor, and I climbed onto the bed and reclined against the pillows, beckoning for him to do the same. Instead, he took a minute to take me in. His gaze moved over my body as strong as a caress, and I got the feeling he was committing this moment to memory.

I could feel my face get warm under his scrutiny, but I didn’t cover up or hide. Instead, I took the same moment to appreciate him and how beautifully he was made. But it wasn’t just his handsomeness that drew me to him. His relentless optimism, his cheerfulness, his ability to put it all on the line when it was something he believed in, his commitment to his sister—it was all these things that made me love him. And I did love him so very much.

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I reached behind my back and unhooked my bra, pitching it over the side of the bed. My undies went next. Then I gave him a pointed look, and he shucked off his underwear, too.

When he straightened up, I held up my arms and said, “I choose you Jason.”

With a hum of approval, he joined me on the bed, sweeping me into his arms and kissing me for what could have been minutes or hours or days. I had no idea. I was so caught up in him. The feel of his hands on my skin, his lips on mine, the way his breath caught when I touched him, as if he was surprised that I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

I tried to show him, but he kept me off guard. He flipped me over onto my stomach, and his hands kneaded my body from the crown of my head to my toes; every bit of me was caressed or massaged until I was limp and tingly and swamped by desire. When he turned me over, he began to lower his head to my nipples, but I was not having it. I pushed on his elbows, sending him down on top of me. Ah, that was better.

I allowed him just enough space to slip on some protection, then I settled him between my legs, right where I wanted him, and hooked my legs behind him, arched my back, and pulled him toward me. He tried to resist me, and I knew he was attempting to draw this night out as long as possible, but I simply could not wait another second to be joined. With a quick arch of my hips and tug of my legs, I felt him slide right into me, exactly where he belonged.

He stiffened at the contact, and I knew he was trying to get control of the situation, but the time for control was gone. I put