Page 37 of The Voicemail

I walk her back into her room and kick the door shut behind us. She breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe.

“We should stop.”

“Probably,” I agree.

Neither of us moves.

“That was your chance to leave,” she tells me.

“I don’t want to leave,” I answer honestly.

I kiss her again, harder this time, and she gives it back just as feverishly. She shoves my jacket off my shoulders, and it hits the floor behind me. My tie follows. Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt with more urgency than patience.

When my shirt opens, her hands press against my chest. She stills for half a second, like she didn’t expect me to feel real under the suit. Then her palms slide over my skin, and I grip her hips to keep from taking too much too fast.

“If you want me to stop, say it,” I tell her.

She pulls back and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Does it look like I want you to stop?”

“No.” I smile.

She kisses me again, and there’s no room for anything else.

I lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist. I carry her to the bed and lay her down, because some part of me still has enough sense not to throw her onto it the way I want to.

“You’re being careful,” she says.

I brace one hand beside her head and look down at her. Her hair spreads across the pillow. Her lips are swollen from my mouth. Her sweatshirt has slipped low enough that I can see the thin strap beneath it and the curve of her shoulder.

“I’m trying very hard not to scare you,” I tell her.

Her expression shifts. Then she reaches up and touches my jaw. “You’re not scaring me right now.”

I kiss her again, slower this time, and slide my hand beneath the hem of her sweatshirt. Her skin is warm under my palm. She arches slightly, and the movement destroys what little control I have left.

Clothes come off between kisses—her sweatshirt first, then my shirt, her camisole gone somewhere in the dark, my pants, her pajama pants—until there’s nothing left between us but skin.

I take my time where I can, because I need to know she’s with me. I feel every touch, every breath, and every quiet shift of her body beneath mine.

When my mouth closes over her nipple, she gasps and arches hard enough that my hand tightens on her hip. She tastes like soap and heat. I drag my mouth lower, and her fingers thread through my hair.

“Alex.”

This time, my name is not a warning.

I look up at her from between her thighs. “Tell me no.”

Her chest rises and falls fast. “What?”

“If any part of you wants me to stop, tell me no.”

She stares at me, lips parted, eyes dark.

Then she says, “Don’t stop.”

I grip her thighs and lower my mouth to her swollen clit. She cries out, then claps a hand over her own mouth like she’s embarrassed. I pull her hand away and pin it gently to the bed.

“No hiding,” I tell her.