Finally the door to the apartment flies open and we stumble inside. He shoves the door shut, flips the bolt, then nearly dumps me onto two feet, yanking down the zipper of my coat.
I wrench it off with his help, then tackle his coat, too. His hands slip under my sweater, around my waist as he tugs me against him, then walks me backward toward the sofa.
Bending his head, he brushes his lips against mine, tender, soft, his tongue dancing with mine. I sink my hands into his shirt and feel the fabric crumple. “More.”
He groans against my mouth, his hands gliding higher up my sweater, cupping my breasts. When the backs of my knees hit the sofa’s arm, I yank him with me, making him grunt as we fall, him on top.
“Easy,” he mutters. “I could hurt you.”
I laugh. “Petruchio, if you think you’re the biggest thing to land on me, you are sorely mistaken.”
I’m about to brag about the incident involving the biggest thing to land on me in all my work travels （that would be an adolescent alligator）， and who came out on top （that would be me）， but given his freak-out earlier about a couple of paintballs coming my way, I decide to keep that little anecdote to myself so he’ll keep doing this thing with my nipples that’s making me pant like I’ve just run wind sprints.
“These tits,” he grunts. “Torturing me with that little show you put on in the train.”
I’m wild, mindless, and I slide my hands beneath his shirt, feeling hot skin, the solidity of his body, that line of hair trailing down from his navel. “Kiss them.”
Christopher’s mouth is hungry, a blissful dance of wet and warm and teasing as he kisses his way down my throat with nips of his teeth, silken flicks of his tongue. His hands cup my breasts, palming them appreciatively.
“I said kiss them,” I whine.
His thumbs flick my nipples, then he pinches them gently.
“Shit!” My head falls back as I arch into him.
“Still have something to complain about?” he murmurs.
I slip my hands beneath the back of his jeans, then his underwear, until I’m touching his big, glorious ass, yanking us closer together so I feel him, thick and hard inside his jeans, wedged right against me.
“Shit,” he moans against my neck.
“Still think you were right about keeping your distance?”
I’m pressed back on the sofa, even more of his weight on me making me gasp. “No.” He dips his head, planting a slow kiss over my heart that makes goose bumps erupt across my skin. “Not anymore.”
My fingers rake through his hair as he kisses across my collarbones to my shoulders, lingering on the one that I broke. He gives me his body weight, gliding his hands slowly up my arms, pinning them over my head. He’s so heavy and it feels so good, the sensation of pressure that my nervous system craves.
His mouth moves lower, down my chest, nuzzling my shirt aside so he can tease my skin with silken hot sweeps of his tongue. One hand cups my breast and tortures my nipple with slow, aching tugs. The other hand drags my thigh wider and slides up, his thumb swirling in teasing, torturous circles. “I want to kiss you here, too, Kate.”
I nod, half-thrilled, half-terrified, trying not to dwell on how little I’ve experienced, how little I know. “I want that,” I whisper. “I want you to kiss me everywhere.”
His hand drifts higher up my thigh until he’s cupping me between my legs, grinding his palm against my jeans, making the seam rub over my clit.
I moan, loud and shameless. It feels so damn good.
With his other hand, Christopher lifts my breast, then drags my nipple through my shirt between his teeth.
Another loud, uninhibited noise leaves me. I’m feeling too much that’s too good to be self-conscious. Wrapping my legs around Christopher’s waist, I work myself against him as he licks my nipple and tugs it rhythmically through the cotton in hot, wet strokes.
He’s breathing so hard as he pulls away and starts to crawl lower.
Then he stands, frantically unlacing my boots, throwing them over his shoulder, bending over me, stealing a deep kiss as he braces himself on one hand and uses the other to flick open the button of my jeans, then drag down the zipper.
He stands, grips the cuffs of my jeans, and yanks them straight off my legs, wrenching me down the sofa with them. My legs hang off the arm of the sofa and he drops to his knees, hauling me closer by the hips and kissing up my thighs. I am keenly aware of the fact that I’m in mismatched fuzzy socks, the most basic-ass pair of dingy, once-white underwear, and the landscape down under is pure wilderness.