Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk #3) - Samantha Young Page 0,113

onto my breasts, somewhat concealed in an emerald-green satin bra that was made to tantalize way more than it was made to support.

“You like?” I whispered. “I bought it for you.”

Michael’s answer was to cup my breasts. They spilled over his hands, and he grew harder beneath me. “I like. I love. Love your tits,” he muttered, spellbound by them.

I grinned. “Yeah?”

His eyes flew to mine, and he kneaded them, making me whimper as pleasure shot straight between my legs. “I’ve thought about doing a lot of dirty things to your tits.”

I covered his hands with mine and squeezed again, rolling my hips against his lips. “Tell me.”

So he did. In lurid detail. Until I was burning hot and losing my mind.

“Do it,” I demanded against his lips. “Michael.”

His mouth covered mine, swallowing my pleas in his voracious, deep, wet kisses that took my skin from hot to combustible. His fingers fumbled for the buttons on my jeans.

Yes!

“Get in the back,” he growled against my mouth.

No need to tell me twice.

I clambered off him, and less than gracefully fell into the back of the car. Michael was too big to get between the seats so as I scrambled out of my jeans, he got out and opened the back door. I let out a laugh of breathless excitement as he got in and slammed the door behind him.

Then I was wrapped around him, my arms, my legs, as he kissed me passionately, hungrily, his hands searching for my bra clasp. It snapped open, and we broke our kiss to pull it away. Then his mouth and tongue were on my breasts, and he pushed beneath my underwear to rub at my clit.

“Oh, God.” I clawed at his T-shirt, wanting to feel his skin.

He got the message and whipped it off. Seeing his determination to torment me, I reached between us and unzipped him. “Now, Michael. I’m ready. You can feel I’m ready.” Pushing beneath his jeans to his boxer briefs, I slipped my hands down over his hard ass, taking the clothes with him, so his cock sprang free.

“I need you.” I looked deep into his eyes. “I’m on birth control, and I’m clean. Are you?”

He swallowed hard and nodded.

“Then come inside me.”

His expression was fierce with passion as he gripped my thigh in one hand. He braced himself over me with the other. He was hot and throbbing against me, and I was thrown back to that day in the darkroom. We’d been so frantic to have each other, it was a miracle we’d made it this long without doing it!

“Michael.”

“God, I love it when you say my name.” He pressed forward into my wet—

My cell rang, blasting the car with its loud music. We froze against each other.

It was Dillon’s ringtone.

And Michael knew it.

He made a throaty noise of frustration and hung his head.

Tears filled my eyes at being thwarted once again, and when the ringing stopped only to start up immediately, I whispered, “I have to.”

He lifted his head. “Does she know you’re with me?”

I nodded, those tears threatening to break loose.

“Then don’t you think her interruption might be deliberate?”

I nodded.

“Then maybe it’s okay to let this one go.”

I squeezed my eyes closed, and the tears slipped free. “I can’t.” As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t.

Michael’s lips touched my cheek, over the wet trail of my tears. “I know,” he whispered tenderly before sitting up.

I loved him so much. “I’m sorry.”

He rubbed my thigh in comfort, reassurance. “We got all the time in the world, dahlin’.”

Grateful, believing he was right, I quickly righted myself and reached through to the front seat for my purse. My cell was still ringing. I answered, hoping I didn’t sound too breathless.

It wasn’t Dillon.

It was my mom.

That call had changed my life forever. Dillon had unexpectedly caught an infection, and I was needed at the hospital. She deteriorated so quickly, it didn’t feel real. And she was too weak. Emotionally as well as physically. The infection fought her and won, and she went into organ failure.

Mom and Dad had to take her off life support a few days later.

Grief tightened its hold around my ribs and crushed me. Most days it was manageable, but lately, its viselike grip had returned.

I stared at Michael. He’d taken the armchair across from me and was waiting patiently for me to speak. After Dillon’s death, after my mom attacked me, blaming me, telling me it should have been me, I pushed everyone away. Including