Page 35 of Love Bomb

And she clearly wasn’t a kid. Which confused the life out of him. Now, she was a very curvy, petite woman who messed with his head.

He was about to pull back and put a stop to the insanity when something strange happened. It felt like a switch flicked in his head. One second he was thinking: This is Rona. The next, he wasn’t thinking at all. He just wanted.

No.

He needed.

His last fleeting thought before his brain shut down entirely was that he’d been drugged. Because it felt like something had flooded his system, pushing him higher than he’d ever been before.

Damn, she could kiss.

She had perfect technique, teasing, tasting, exploring one minute, pulling back the next. He found himself chasing after her, wanting more.

Needing more.

Hell, he was desperate for more.

He was on fire with wanting her. Every touch, taste, movement seemed to keep her just out of his reach and all he could do was follow. Gone was the smooth technique he’d perfected over the years. In its place was the desperation of a needy man.

He pulled her closer with clumsy hands before threading his fingers through the hair at the base of her head. Curls curved around his hand, encasing him in silk. He slanted his mouth and deepened the kiss. Chasing the taste of her like it was his new addiction. Never getting enough.

She met him every step of the way.

Full, rounded breasts flattened against his chest, making him groan.

He wanted his hands on them.

He wanted his hands everywhere.

She smelled like spring flowers. And her skin was porcelain. He wanted to touch every inch of it. Taste every inch. He wanted to bury himself inside her and never leave.

Soaring.

He was soaring from a kiss.

Just a kiss.

An image of her, spread out over satin sheets, flashed into his mind. All those curls fanning out over the bed around her, and all that perfect milky skin waiting to be caressed.

He was going to die if he didn’t get inside her.

Now.

Suddenly, he felt a hot, wet sensation rush into his jeans and over his backside. He yelped and pulled away, scrambling to get off the bed.

“What the hell?” he shouted as his arse began to burn.

“It was an accident,” Rona said, climbing over her side of the bed. “Let me get a towel.”

She hurried for the bathroom, and that’s when Bain finally registered the mug in her hand. The empty mug. He gingerly stalked to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, and looked over his shoulder at the damage. There was hot chocolate all over his backside and down his thighs.

It looked like he’d crapped himself.

Rona came running at him carrying a white fluffy towel. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Here, let me wipe that for you.” She aimed for his arse.

It was all too much.

Bain grabbed her shoulders and set her aside. “I can wipe my own backside,” he said firmly.