This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(88)
“You don’t have to—”
“Your resilience. The way you make me laugh when you don’t mean to be funny. How smart you are.”
Sometimes I forget I graduated with a higher GPA than Edward did. Forget the times he used my notes because they were so much better than his, and that he wouldn’t have gotten his MBA if I hadn’t drilled him, hadn’t pushed him to be better. How he would come home talking about a difficult account because he knew I would see something he had missed. I forgot so many things I was capable of because he wanted me to believe I relied on him, when actually he relied on me much more.
“I love the way you care about people,” Judah continues. “Like your friend Cora.”
I do look up then, touched that he remembered her name. The harsh overhead light in the shed hones the angle of his cheekbones, exposes the full, firm lines of his mouth. Burnishes his skin a deeper brown.
“Your ass,” he says softly, completely seriously.
Laughter erupts from me, and I flop back on the comforter, squinting up at the overly bright light. “My ass is my most noble quality.”
“Pretty close,” he says, leaning over, smiling down at me.
I can’t seem to find the will to resist reaching up, tracing the curve of his bottom lip. The shallow cleft in his chin. He stills, eyes locked with mine so intensely, I almost forget we’re in a shed in the back of an old truck. We could be in an orchard, on the side of a mountain, in a vineyard. I’d be anywhere with him right now, and the way he devours me with one hot look, it feels like he’d choose to be anywhere with me. And yet the restraint is evident in the fists clenched at his sides, in the muscle flexing in the taut line of his jaw. If I kiss him now, I won’t have anyone to blame but myself because I know I can trust him not to cross the invisible line I’ve drawn between us. Lola and Hendrix’s words echo back to me from just an hour ago.
You deserve some pleasure.
Make your own rules.
Get a little something for yourself.
Judah Cross is something for myself, and I want him now. It’s Christmas, and I want to feel like a gift, like someone to cherish. He makes me feel that way now with just a look. Imagine what a kiss would do.
I reach up, slowly in case he doesn’t want to do this, and cup his neck, drawing him down to me. His brief moment of hesitation leaves a tiny breath between our lips.
“Are you sure?” he rasps.
“A kiss, okay?” I whisper. “We can do just a kiss, right?”
He nods, sliding his fingers into the hair at my nape and pulling me close, so close our lips brush, pull away, brush again. A dance of should we, will we, and God, yes, let’s, ending with his mouth sealed over mine in a kiss that once it begins, does not hesitate. He dives in, and the desperate force of it matches my own. He said earlier that he was greedy, and the kiss reflects a deep, banked hunger that mirrors mine. Like the desire that has driven me more than once to touch myself under cold sheets and think of him has burned through him too. The kisses he trails down my throat torch my control, and my hands glide over the hard muscles of his back beneath his sweater.
He groans into our kiss. “Touch me, Sol.”
I want to so badly, and my wandering hands aren’t shy, gripping his shoulders and caressing the lean muscles at his waist. Learning his body with the tips of my fingers, I kiss the column of his throat. His grip at my waist tightens, and the tether on his self-control seems strained. He breathes heavily into the curve of my neck. His erection presses into my hip, and I know that if we don’t stop now, it will go beyond a kiss.
I want it to.
I find one of his hands and guide it to my breast. My nipple buds into his palm, a flower turning to the warmth of the sun. Watching me closely, he squeezes in rhythm with my ragged breaths. I hold my bottom lip hostage between my teeth to keep from screaming. It has been so long since I was in the palm of a man’s hand like this—with a laser desire that takes my every response as a cue to how to pleasure me next.
“Can I see?” he asks, his hand poised at the hem of my sweater.
Inside this cocoon we’ve woven from ardor and desperation, I can’t deny him anything. I nod, closing my eyes when he peels the sweater up and unlatches the front closure of my bra. Cool air christens my nipples, drawing them into hard, tight points.
“Jesus,” he breathes, his breath fanning warmly over the curve of my breast. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
“I’m not.” I force a laugh out, ready to detail all my flaws and sags after breastfeeding three babies. “My—”
I choke on my words when his mouth closes over the tip of one breast.
The soft pressure of his mouth sucking gently on me is torture. I squeeze my thighs together, seeking some relief from the throbbing there. From the heat building in my core and spreading across every centimeter of skin and nerves. He increases the pressure, alternating bites, nibbles, sucks, licks with his mouth, while his hand rubs my other nipple, tugs and pinches and flicks. It’s an unrushed seduction, so persistent and patient and precise that the pleasure steadily climbs up my body. My back arches and my legs fall open and my head tips, mouth widening on a silent scream.
“I’m gonna come,” I gasp, incredulous because I never have from just this. It’s been a long time since a man’s touch coaxed this response from me, but I recognize the tension crawling up my legs and wrapping around my spine.