Page 113 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

He kisses me until I’m breathless, tugging me up onto his lap so that I’m straddling him. His mouth brushes down my throat and to my collarbone.

A moan slips from my lips, and Rhett goes rigid for a moment. Then his hands slide up my shirt and cup my breasts. His breath becomes shallow, and I ache for him to touch me more.

I break the kiss and glance down at him. His pupils are blown, only heat and desire are in his eyes.

“This isn’t an escape,” I remind him. “I choose you.”

“You know what this will do to me?” he whispers like he’s begging me to be gentle with him, not to break his heart.

“Probably the same thing it will do to me.”

I don’t want to break him, because I’m already so broken, and all I want to do is feel like I’m not too much, and that’s how I feel in Rhett’s arms, like I’m exactly the right amount of Cristina.

I kiss him and he pulls me down. My clothes are tugged off between kisses that deepen. There’s nothing frantic about this. This isn’t getting something out of our system. It’s putting something into it, filling us up, refilling our empty hearts.

I would choose Rhett over and over again, every time. My heart knows it. I know it. Every part of me knows this all the way to my bones.

He kisses every inch of me, lingering on my breasts.

“I’m a breast guy,” he admits, which makes me laugh, and when he slips two fingers inside me, he murmurs about how beautiful I am.

He brings me to the brink of satisfaction and stops.

I lift my head to where he is between my knees. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because I’m making this last.”

He sits up and says, voice rough, “Damn, Cristina, you’re so beautiful.”

I start to cover my face with my hands, embarrassed, but he stops me.

“Don’t hide your light,” he tells me, like just saying the words scrapes against the edges of his heart. “You’re too beautiful for that. I want to see you—all of you.”

His words strike me hard. My throat tightens, but I force myself to do as he says, to stay open, and after a moment the knot softens and I swallow it away.

With a wry smile, Rhett tugs off his jeans and boxers. My heart stutters at the sight of him—hard, solid, ready.

He trails his tongue up my body, running it from my core, over my nipples to my throat, where he claims my mouth with his.

His erection presses into me and I wrap my legs around him, my body swollen and thrumming.

Rhett kisses me deeply, slowly, his tongue memorizing every part of me and me doing the same to him. I run my hands down his body—he’s hard yet so silky at the same time.

He rolls on a condom and slowly slips inside me, waiting for me to stretch.

When he fills me up, he murmurs, “That’s my girl.”

And I feel it, that I am his as much as he’s mine. Which means he is mine.

Rhett pumps slowly, taking his time, kissing me until I’m stupid.

This. I’ve never experienced anything like this. Not with any guy who came before. This must be what true lovemaking is—not fast and messy, but slow and sensual, two bodies syncing up as their hearts collide.

He rolls his hips, and the movement hits my pleasure spot. Pressure begins to build. Warmth floods my face, and Rhett whispers, “Come apart for me, Cristina.”

I kiss him hard. Sweat sprinkles his brow and chest, smearing my skin and making it slick.

His pace quickens; his breathing shallows, and all I feel is blissful pressure that builds and builds. “Rhett,” I whisper. Then I shatter, a wave of pleasure crashing over me. My body pulses with ecstasy, and I look up to see Rhett smiling down.