The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,61
could hear her drinking it.
“It’s cappuccino,” she said. “Technically.”
Cyrus reached up and extracted the cup from her hand again. Without warning her, he picked her up off her feet and carried her to her bedroom.
“Oh, very nice,” she said, settling into his arms. “This is almost better than coffee.”
“Are we married yet?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Almost.”
“Not good enough.” He tossed her onto her bed and she landed with a bounce. Half the bed was pillows. Big fluffy white comforter, lacy white blanket overtop, and then pillows, pillows, pillows. What the hell was it with women and pillows?
“Go to sleep,” he said.
“You know me getting ready for bed is a ten-step process. And if you don’t know it yet, you will the first night we’re married.”
“What? Ten steps? What do you do at night? Paint the house?”
Paulina scrambled to the head of the bed and lay back on her mountain of pillows. She held up both hands and started ticking off steps on her fingers.
“Step one—pajamas. Step two—wash my face. Step three—exfoliate.”
“What happens if you skip step three?”
“You don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. Step four—moisturize. Step five—brush teeth. Step six—take my hair down. Step seven—put my hair up.”
“I think I figured out where you can skip a step.”
“Step eight—clean up the mess I just made in the bathroom.”
“Another step I’d skip.”
“Step nine—pee.”
“That’s fair. I take that step myself.”
“Step ten—say my prayers. Then I go to sleep.”
“You forgot step eleven.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Kiss your fiancé goodnight.”
Paulina turned her head, looked at him, batted her eyelashes. Cyrus dove onto the bed and before she could wriggle away, he had Paulina pinned under him. He kissed her forehead, kissed her cheeks, kissed her neck and ears.
“You keep missing home plate,” she said.
“I probably taste like beer.”
“I won’t mind your beer breath if you don’t mind my coffee breath.”
Cyrus didn’t mind at all. He kissed her mouth, long and deep. He pressed his tongue gently into her mouth and she let him. Not only did she let him, she touched his tongue with hers and wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him closer and deepen the kiss.
It took more willpower than he had that night to stop himself from lying down on her. Mistake, he knew, because once she felt how hard he was, she would send him packing. But there was no hope for it. He rested his full weight on her, and she made a little happy murmuring sound.
“Aren’t you supposed to kick me out?” he asked, between kisses.
“Give me a minute.” She kissed him again and Cyrus let her. Another minute or two of deep kissing passed. They kissed long enough and hard enough, Cyrus started to think she’d forgotten her job.
“Now?” he asked.
“I know I should,” she said, “But I’m having too much fun.” She wrapped her legs around his lower back and grinned up at him.
“I don’t have to go,” he said. “I could stay.”
“I know you could.”
“You know I won’t.”
“I know you won’t,” she said. “But I know you want to. And you know I want you to.”
“You do?”
“You think you’re the only one turned on in this room?”
“You want it?” he asked. “Really?”
She nodded slowly, her dark eyes hooded by her thick black lashes. She’d never looked sexier to him. His groin tightened. Cyrus would have happily spent the entire night tucked on top of Paulina, kissing her and digging his fingers into her curling soft hair, tasting coffee with every touch of his tongue against hers.
But.
He put each hand beside her shoulders and pushed himself up.
Paulina, however, would not let go. She whispered, playfully, but kept her feet firmly wrapped around his back.
“Ahem.”
“Do I have to?” she asked.
“You don’t have to. But you probably should. You got prayers to say. I need to say a few myself, I think.”
With a put-upon sigh, Paulina—with obvious reluctance—removed her feet from his back and placed them on the bed.
“I knew we should have had a June wedding,” she said.
Cyrus laughed as he dragged himself—with obvious reluctance—off the bed.
“One month,” he said. “And a half.”
“Fifty-three days,” she said. “I’ll survive.”
“I better go before I change my mind about a few things.”
“You better do that, Daddy.”
Cyrus knew he should, but he couldn’t quite leave yet. He sat down next to her on the bed, stroked his hand through her hair, stroked her cheek with one curl.
“You ever gonna tell me if you ever done this before?” Cyrus asked her.