Page 118 of Go Back to December
“The fireworks are over.” His expression resembles Luiza’s careful expectation. “Do you want me to call Annabel?”
I shake my head.
“What do you want?”
“You.” I curl toward him, and his arm reflexively draws me closer.
“Which Johnson do you want?”
The spice of whiskey scents his breath as I draw closer and whisper, “All of them.”
His kiss is so gentle, I’m not sure he believes me.
I press my lips harder, and he retreats for a heartbeat, before returning. He lightly flicks his mouth over mine. It’s the same motion as his tender strokes on my ankle. The brush of his fingers on the backs of my legs in the pool hall. Slow and indulgent. Maddening and teasing.
And when my brain stops spinning, and I realize his taunting intention, I break off. Catch his bicolored eyes on fire, and the flash of that genuine white smile.
His mouth returns to mine, granting me the pressure and urgency I demand. I moan my approval as his hands slip under my top and graze my heated skin. His fingers explore slowly, tracing my ribs, my abdomen.
At this rate, we’ll be here until thaw.
I pull back to remove my sweater. Baz’s mouth parts as he surveys the scrap of lace and underwire serving as my bra. It leaves little to the imagination.
As his hands circle me, he utters a low, admiring curse. With his thumb, he traces the pattern of lace. The faint contact dissolves my insides into hot, liquid want. When he brushes the fabric over the taut peak, I cry so loudly and so sharply, Baz covers my mouth with his to swallow the sound.
He makes quick work of the clasp of the bra, and as he cups my breasts, I release a harsh breath. His talented hands stroke and lift, but the motion barely eases their weight.
As he trails kisses down my throat, his thumb creeps closer to where I’m straining for his touch. When he finally skims my nipple, sensation climbs and I choke out his name.
Pulling back, he cups my face with one hand. His brow furrows in concern.
“I’m already losing my head,” I gasp.
“Good. So am I.”
“You are?”
“When you look at me like that,” he whispers. “I’m undone.”
His lips find mine and work another hot path down my neck. I press against him, molding myself to every solid plane and arc.
“Baz, tell me what the PT said. About how not to injure you.”
His expression is on fire. “Is that an invitation?”
One of us growls and our lips lock again.
“Seriously,” I pant. “What do you need?”
“You,” he says. “Only you. I’ll show you.”
He cuts me off with another kiss; his fingers work a teasing dance at the waistline of my leggings, spinning and dipping closer to the place that most craves his touch. I’m hyperventilating, wanting this finger ballet to go on for eternity while also silently begging him to shred the Lycra barrier between us.
Clawing at his gray T-shirt, I flirt with the idea that it’s the one I slept in. I stop kissing him and stare at it.
“It’s the one you wore. And no, I haven’t washed it.”
The confession is a starting gun. I’m off the block, into the Olympic-sized pool. I rip off the T-shirt we’ve both claimed so my fingers can dive into his skin.
