Page 110 of Match Me if You Can

He takes the whole damn thing.

It’s hot. It’s wet. It’s deep. It’s so long I barely notice him shoving the glasses, plate, and forks away, barely notice him doing the same with the bottle and only because it tips over, some of the liquid splashing onto my arm.

I gasp, my lips breaking from his. “The champagne⁠—”

He lifts his head from mine, eyes so dark they’re almost black in the moonlight.

Then he straightens the bottle so it’s not spilling any longer.

Then he comes back to me.

His tongue drags along the outside of my arm, capturing the splash of champagne.

“Ace!” I gasp.

He takes advantage of my parted lips, dropping his mouth back to mine, sweeping his tongue inside. He tastes of champagne and chocolate from the bite he stole and it’s a drug to me. I need more. I need everything this man will give me.

I dive my hands into his hair, taking the kiss deeper, wetter, hotter.

At the same time his free hand is drifting down along my torso, my hip, the outside of my thigh, finding the hem of my dress and slowly, inexorably dragging it up.

“Wait,” I whisper, breaking my lips away.

Not even a second before he stops, before he pulls back, concern in those dark brown eyes. “Too much?”

I shake my head and sit up, finding the little metal tab hidden beneath my armpit and tugging down my zipper.

Then I grab the hem of my dress and start yanking it up.

He helps.

Which means that in approximately three more seconds, I’m in just my underwear and bra, my dress tossed over one of the lanterns on the other side of the blanket.

Luckily they’re battery-operated.

I reach for him again but he settles a hand in the middle of my chest, pushing me onto the pillows and leaning back enough for him to take a good, long look.

And I feel every inch of his gaze like it’s a physical touch as it drags along my body.

“Christ,” he mutters, eyes burning into mine. “That’s a sight.”

It is.

I knew it when I chose this set to put it on this morning—because I knew we’d be here, that he’d be seeing the nude lace that reveals more than it covers—but hearing the roughness enter his voice, feeling the slight tremble of his fingertips as he trails them over my skin, seeing the need written into the lines of his face makes it even better.

“Ace,” I whisper.

He bends, nips at my jaw, my throat. “Yeah, baby?”

I tug at his jacket. “I want your skin against mine.”

Barely have the words crossed my lips before he’s shrugging off his coat, tossing it aside. Then we both get to work on the buttons of his shirt and what feels like an eternity later (but is likely only thirty seconds), he’s shrugging out of that too, tossing it in the direction of his suit jacket.

“God, now that’s a nice view,” I whisper.

“Mine is better, baby,” he murmurs, hand sliding along the outside of my thigh, hitching it up, pushing it wide.

Then he’s sliding down.