Wicked Sexy

22

We take the stairs two at a time, Connor ahead of me, still gripping my hand. The stairwell echoes with the sound of our footsteps pounding against metal, the blare of the alarm. We burst through the door on the first floor and out into the night. We’re on the side of the hotel, on a lit pathway that leads to the parking lot.

Before I can get my bearings, Connor pulls me off the path into the shadows of the building, presses me back against the wall, and takes my face in his hands.

“One night,” he says roughly, staring at me like he’s starving. “Say yes.” We’re both out of breath. I know it’s not from the sprint down the stairs.

“Connor, the building could be about to burn down—”

“Let it burn. Say yes.”

I laugh. A wild, dangerous feeling is growing inside me, a chafing at the seams, like an animal that has grown too large for its cage. “You said you wouldn’t kiss me again.”

“Only because you were about to cut off my balls. Say yes.”

The way he’s staring at me, the heat in his eyes, the hardness of his jaw, the raw, unmistakable need—I’ve never been looked at like this by a man. I feel as if I’m standing in the sun for the first time. I feel like I’ve been living underground my entire life, and I’ve just crawled out of a hole into glorious, burning sunlight.

Burning being the operative word.

Things destroyed by fire: the earth in 2 Peter 3:10 in the Bible; Rome in 64 A.D.; London in 1666; Chicago in 1871; Boston in 1872; San Francisco in 1906; the Hindenburg in 1937; much of Europe in WWII.

Tabitha West in 2016?

When I freeze, Connor says, “Stop thinking.”

“That’s like asking me to stop breathing.”

One of his hands drifts down and very lightly grips my throat. His thumb rests over the pulse throbbing hard in my neck, betraying me more than any words ever could.

He murmurs, “Give your brain a night off. Your body wants this. And so does mine.” Slowly, he presses his pelvis to mine, his chest to mine, his thighs to mine, until our bodies are flush together and I have irrefutable evidence of how much his body wants me.

I squeeze shut my eyes so I can’t see that incredibly enticing look on his face turn into something a little less enthusiastic. “It’s called nonconcordance.”

A pause, and then, “What?”

“My body and my brain sometimes don’t work together. Especially in things like…this. I can’t help it. I get stuck in my head. I’ll start reciting lists, narrating what’s happening, anything to distance myself. It’s like being a spectator in my own body.”

He gently thumbs over my cheekbone. He doesn’t speak, but his silence has a quality of thoughtfulness to it, as if he’s working through what I’ve said.

“Once it happens, I can’t…that’s it. So.” I give Connor’s chest a gentle push, but he doesn’t budge.

After another moment, he says quietly, “Permission to engage the enemy, ma’am.” Furrowing my brows, I open my eyes. “Um…I don’t know what that means.” “I want to kiss you,” he breathes, staring at my mouth.

When I don’t respond because my mind is in a death match with my hormones, Connor simply lowers his head and brushes his lips along the length of my jaw.

I shudder. He nuzzles his nose beneath my ear, inhaling against my skin, which makes me shudder again. He releases my throat and slides his hand into my hair. He takes a fistful of it and gently tugs, tilting my head back to expose my throat. He murmurs, “Just feel this. I’ll stop in ten seconds. And I want you to count the time. Out loud.”

He opens his mouth over the pulse in my neck. The unexpected heat of his lips and tongue feels so amazing, a low moan breaks from my chest.

I can’t remember the last time I was kissed on the throat. Before Connor, I can’t remember the last time I was kissed anywhere, by anyone.

It’s f*****g amazing.

“One,” he prompts, his voice muffled against my skin.

“One.”

The word is so soft, it doesn’t qualify as a whisper. Connor sucks on my throat again, this time using a hint of teeth. My eyes slide shut with pleasure.

“Two.”

His mouth drifts closer to my collarbone, his tongue gliding like silk, raising goose bumps on the back of my neck. I inhale, arching toward him. In the distance, the whine of sirens competes with the intermittent squawk of the hotel’s alarm. I barely notice either.

“Three.”

He bites me softly on the long muscle above my clavicle. Heat pulses between my thighs, and I restlessly squeeze them together. I breathe, “Four.”

His fingers find the hem of my shirt and slip beneath. When his fingertips brush my bare skin, I jerk, gasping. He kisses a soft trail from my shoulder back to my throat, his lips leaving sparks in their wake. I can hardly concentrate on counting, and have to think for a moment to remember what number I’m on. “Five.”

His fingers drift up my waist and over my rib cage, tracing their shape, the hollows and ridges. His gentle kiss turns more insistent. His tongue laps at the dip in the base of my throat. My n*****s harden and begin to ache.

I want his mouth on them. I want his hands on them. I want to feel the pull and tug of his teeth—

“Six,” he reminds me gently. When I breathlessly repeat it, I feel his lips curve against my skin.

He whispers, “Good.”