Page 133 of Unsuitable

He freezes, so I move my head back a touch, staring into his eyes. I can see a hint of panic in his.

“I want to feel your skin against mine, Kas. I want to feel you.”

He holds my stare, and then he seems to make a decision. He steps back from me.

I see his throat work nervously, and I feel bad for him.

“Just pants, if that’s easier? You can keep the shirt on.”

“No.” The fierce tone in his voice surprises me.

Then, I watch as he reaches back with his hand and pulls his shirt over his head.

He stops, holding it against his chest, his arms still through the armholes.

I can see he’s visibly trembling, so I stare him in the eye. “You don’t have to do this, if you’re not ready,” I whisper.

His infinite pools of blackness stare back at me. I see the determination rise in them. Then, he’s pulling his T-shirt the rest of the way off, and he drops it to the floor.

My eyes move over him. “You’re beautiful, Kas.”

And he is.

Yes, there’s extensive scarring on his body. The remnants of that night. But I don’t see the scars. I only see the man I love. The beautiful golden skin that covers his body, the ripple of muscles that lead down to his very lickable-looking V with the happy trail that disappears into his pants.

He works out, and it shows on his body. In his shoulders and arms…dear God, don’t get me started. But I’ll tell you this…my tongue plans on spending a lot of time getting acquainted with those veins that run through his strong forearms.

I lift my eyes back to his, and the emotion in them nearly slays me.

“Can I touch you?” I ask softly.

I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows roughly. He slightly nods his head.

I step forward, lifting my hand. I press my fingertips to his chest.

He sucks in a breath.

His skin is hot to the touch. I run my fingertips over his chest, over the scars and the unmarked skin, tracing down to his six-pack.

“Beautiful,” I whisper. I stare up into his eyes.

Something breaks and then roars to life in his gaze.

He grabs my head between his hands and slams his mouth down on mine, kissing me—no, devouring me—and I willingly let him take me.

Because I’m his.

And he is mine.

I slide my hands up his arms and to his shoulders. I hold him, my nails digging into his skin, needing more of him…all of him.

His erection is pressed up against my stomach, and it’s a tease. I want to see him…feel him.

Lowering a hand between us, I tug on the waistband of his lounge pants. “Pants, too,” I breathe against his lips.

A low chuckle escapes his lips, and the sound thrills me.

“Bossy,” he murmurs.