by Anne Eliot
Royce Devlin’s kiss has got to be the best of the best. Should I stop it if it feels like this? Should I pull away when I know my chances of having another kiss like this one are slim to none—as in probably never again, never this amazing in my whole future life?
I know he’s going to be angry that I’ve tricked him like this. But he’s made it clear that he despises me anyhow, and I can’t explain…why…or what…but…but…but…oh the lips. The lips he has are so great.
How they slant and move over mine. His hands, how they make my skin burn. The way his chin-scruff feels soft against my cheeks.
I need to record this. Make a memory.
Remember how his hands move up my back with his thumbs along my spine and his fingers splaying around my waist to stroke the sides of my stomach.
A memory, because that feels extra nice. Because that makes my heart flip.
I note how he seems to pause and breathe, like he’s waiting for me to catch up to him, then when I respond by kissing back, he pushes back harder, lips into my lips, fingers into my skin, body into my body.
He’s being polite and testing the limits of what I will and will not give, what I will and will not let him touch, and that consideration alone is making me melt and give him more than I’ve ever given anyone.
I keep going because I decide I need to memorize the scratch of his beard against my cheeks. The exact feeling of his breath against my face. The sound of the sexy rasps he’s making and the heat of him simmering on my lips, as he pauses to breathe. He and this kiss, his skin, those muscles—all are so hard and soft, so gentle and so rough. It’s the unexpected contrasts that are setting off more surges of my curiosity.
Or, is it setting off personal greed? Because, I simply want more. And more. And more.
I’ve only just begun to brave my own explorations with my hands on him. How I love the way the back of his hair curls in so many directions at the base of his neck. And, oh, that neck. See, I’ve never kissed a guy’s neck before, but he did it to mine, and now I want to copy him simply for the fact that he’s begun pressing himself into me harder and harder—down there, and he’s doing that every time I press my lips into his neck.
Unable to resist, I return my lips to his and twine my body back into his with a tilt of my hips just how he did to me. He groans and pulls me closer—presses even harder—and it’s intimidating because all of a sudden, I can feel him. And I mean…feel him. And despite how that made my spine skitter some in fear, I don’t pull away. That’s because…oh that curiosity is still there, and the butterflies…and how I crave more…
“What do you want?”
Did he whisper that? Or did I whisper that?
I want—I want—how desperately I want—
I want to keep melting his mouth into mine, then I want try everything one more time. Then I’m going to stop and explain exactly why I was in his closet. And he’s going to understand…but first.
What do I want?
I want to pull his head closer to mine…
I think from very far away I’ve uttered, “Please.”
He gasps this short, fast breath, like I’ve surprised him by copying exactly the tongue-lip lick thing he did to me. Then, like he’s lost control too, the tentative gentle touches stop and he’s grinding against me so hard my head falls back and bumps against the wall. There’s all of this—pressure—this energy and this heat and—his mouth and my skin—and the wall against my back—and his lips go back over mine. And this time, when we kiss, I’m seeing lights behind my eyes and truly everything feels like this floating dream.
I know I need to say something, but as his lips touch mine again, I think I might be dying, yet I’m more alive than I’ve ever felt, which is why I simply can’t ruin it.
My mind hums again: Not yet. Please not yet. Please. Please. Please.
Every bit of my skin turns into white-hot molten lava. My lungs lock up and I’m holding my breath because I’ve let him pick me up higher. He’s wrapped my legs around him, or I’ve somehow just done that myself. Either way it’s really cool. We’re so close now, every hot inch of him is touching me and still, it’s not enough. I want more. Again, everything goes to dark heat, and pressing hands, and that part of your mind that has the power to float you away takes over again. I could swear we’re both flying together in space.
But then, like he needs to breathe, his lips and his tongue leave my mouth and start to rain kisses all the way around my hairline, pushing the hair out of his way so he doesn’t miss my temples, then behind my ears and onto the back of my neck.
I’ve got no clue when his hands started up near my bra. My hair catches and tangles between us more, and I love how he’s stroking the skin on the sides of my waist all over again—up and down—like I’m a guitar.
I feel, and I feel.
Feel my heartbeats galloping…
Feel my lips swollen and hot.
Feel how his hot skin melts against my hands.
Feel my shirt hike up, and our bare stomachs touching.
Feel the scratch of his beard brushing the tops of my breasts.
When his thumbs start tickling the underside of my bra and then go under, the shock of desire I feel is so intense, I gasp and move my hands up against his chest to push him away.
He’s paused—lips back on mine—and that’s when my thumbs have landed onto that small, curious piercing I thought I’d seen the first day we met. I press into it just how he’s pressing into me—a move that he must like, because it’s made him gasp and pull his head away from me, and now he’s almost growling against the side of my neck.
Suddenly I’m the one moaning, because he’s started a new, gentle assault of kisses along the hollow of my throat and over the curve of my collarbones. My hands are easing down his chest and I boldly scatter my fingers across every ripped muscle of his pecs, then I’m back to the washboard stomach, and tentatively back to the V, where I’m finding the courage to go lower—to brush over that light trail of hair that’s below his belly button. Like my fingers have a mind of their own, they’re ready to head into places under the edge of those low-hung pants that I’ve never ever thought about touching on a guy before—ever!
But I want to…and I want him to…
And…oh my God…
How I want more…
As much as my brain is against this, my body is begging me to say all the right words. The words that will convince this guy to lie down next to me right here and tell me what to do—teach me how to touch—and show me how to make love.
But this is all wrong.
So wrong for me.
Because I don’t love this man.
Which is why I pull my mouth away from his, and whisper, “Wait. I’m sorry. Please. Stop.”
Chapter 29
We’re forehead to forehead, both of us covered in perspiration and panting like we’ve run a marathon. The sliver of light makes out a few planes of his silhouetted face while I’m desperately trying to find some cooler air to breathe under the heat we’ve generated. “Please,” I say again, my voice is embarrassing, gravelly gasps. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m really sorry.”
“Why are you being so polite? Please don’t be so polite, and for Christ’s sake, do not apologize.”
“Look,” I whisper, leaning my back against the wall.
“Look at what?” he whispers and a new wave of shivers hits my neck. “Hard to see anything straight with the bright stars you just put behind my eyes, girl.” He trails the back of his hands over both of my cheeks. “But I bet if I could see you right now, I’d lose it.” He brushes a knuckle over my mouth, pulling away a strand of my sweaty, curling hair that had clung there. “And damn those pouty sexy lips have got to look twice as hot now that they’re are all swollen. Bet that faraway, dreamy look in your eyes would undo me. Christ…one more kiss. Just one, or two more. This time with the lights on.” He’s suddenly raining kisses down my neck again, and my head’s already falle
n back, my hands are already finding his waist as he pulls me up against him hard as he asks, “Don’t you want to try a little more, see where this goes??”
“Oh. No,” I croak. “Please. I, uh don’t want to, so…no, thank you. Please. Let’s not. Please.”
It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever uttered in my life.
He pulls back away from me again, groaning like he’s in pain. “Do you know I’ve never had a girl beg me not to have sex with her? You just sounded like you were passing at a plate of spinach.”
I try to speak louder and make my voice sound true and clear. “Well, I’m not just a random girl. I’m Robin.”
“I know.” He chuckles. “I’ve known all along. I was only pretending not to know you.” He steps closer so our bodies are fitting together again. His hand moves more hair off my face. “Robin.” His lips come dangerously close to mine so I can feel his breath on them when he whispers, “Robin…who’s an amazing kisser. Robin…who was robbin’ my leather jacket out of my closet.” He chuckles at his own bad joke. “Do you think you’re the first staff member to try to take my stuff, or trade sex for—special favors?”
“Whoa-no-I-wasn’t,” is all I can say trying to back away from him, but the wall is in the way and his arms hold me fast.
His arm snakes to the side and gets the door to open a little wider. More light filters across his beautiful face as he stares down at mine like he’s trying to read my expression. “What’s your deal? I caught you red handed. Sue me for having a little fun.” Releasing his grip on me, he crosses his arms over his chest, making him more intimidating. “You’re the one who snuck in here, and you won’t deny that you’d meant to keep my favorite, Spanish leather, hand-sewn, three-thousand-dollar jacket! I hate when my shit disappears and then shows up on eBay for sale.”
I shake my head, trying to get my words to turn into sentences and the bones back into my legs. “Three thousand dollars…for one jacket?”
“That’s what I paid for it, but at a charity auction my last favorite leather jacket went for thousands. Rolling Stone had already called the jacket you were taking from me iconic, so it’s probably worth much more. My wardrobe team wants me to retire it though. I’m getting a whole new look in a few weeks for the next tour, so I guess you can have it, thief.”
“I wasn’t stealing! Nor would I ever sell your things to strangers. I was getting some clothing of yours to wrap around the baby. How was I supposed to know it was so valuable? I was only looking for something that smelled just right. Something with your soapy, manly-musky scent imbedded all over it. The jacket fit my requirements and then some. I—I—told you. When you asked me what I was doing? B-b-before we. Uh. Kissed.” I feel my cheeks heat to fire and my voice drops to a whisper, “I told you that I was smelling it.”
“What? Why?” He’s scratching his head, looking at me like I’m mental.
“I wanted the baby to be able to smell you up close all day long, so she could subconsciously, like—memorize you. So maybe she would think you were holding her. Even if you don’t want to bond with her yet, she’s so little that she might not know the difference and lock on to your smell. Yesterday, you said I was the one in charge of the baby bonding. You said to do my job.” I drop my voice and the words tumble out too fast, “Maybe in hindsight, I do sound crazy, but this is what zookeepers do for abandoned baby animals. Because if a parent just abandons a baby like how you’re doing, it could stop eating, fail to thrive, and maybe fail to grow and all kinds of terrible… things.”
He blinks down at me like his brain function equals mine on its levels of max-overdrive, but I can only hope he’s heard what I’m saying.
“What you must think about me, Robin Love.” He blinks more. “That…that… I’ve abandoned my baby, that I’m the kind of guy that would make out with the nanny.”
I shrug, not denying his words and his expression collapses some. Suddenly he’s not so fierce looking at all. Like we both know it’s too depressing to go forward with the direction he took the conversation, I go on, lamely talking about the jacket, “I thought the leather would be perfect because it’s like real skin. As I was holding it for a few seconds it became warm and soft against my cheek, which made it smell even more amazing, and I had this sensation that you were right there, so I thought it was perfect. I r-r-really wasn’t stealing it.”
The shaking in my legs has transferred to my voice as I realize what I’ve just done in this closet, with my boss. And then I’m thinking about he thought about me. That he thought I was the kind of girl who would make out with him to trade him for a jacket and so I strive even harder to explain myself. To justify my actions. “You m-m-must know that how y-y-you s-s-smell is really distinctive. I’ll bet you purposefully f-f-force-field yourself daily in that cloud of attractive, reel-them-in, girl-bait that’s on your skin. Forgive me if I’m not immune to that stuff, because despite the part where I’m a staff member, I am only human, and just a normal g-g-girl, after all.”
I put my hands over my heart to try to still the pounding and the fight goes out of me as I whisper again, “Oh. God. I’m so sorry.”
He makes this strangled sound, and when his eyes go over me with that unreadable silver gaze of his, I’m instantly covered in goose bumps again. I press the back of my hand against my lips because I think he’s staring at them, and I’m suddenly too aware that they feel swollen, raw. Hot.
When I look to see if maybe his lips look how mine feel, I think he groans like he’s in pain again, then drags me out of the closet with him. “Your story is so whacked that I actually believe you. And if that’s the case, I’ve made another huge mistake where you are concerned, and I probably owe you yet another apology. Okay? I’m the one who is sorry. Not you.”
I squint as he flips on the light in his entryway.
“I should have asked,” I say, getting control of my shaking and my voice. “But since we did promise not to speak to each other again after our last argument, I thought I could tiptoe in here and handle my business while the baby slept. Although you never seem to really worry about her, please know, I’ve got the baby on a monitor. I’m still watching after her even now, and your daughter is just fine.”
He puts his hands up to the sides of his head, those lightning-hot eyes locking on to mine, as his own realizations and impacts of what we just did, seem to finally slam into him. “We…we…we almost. You know. Shit!”
“I know, but we didn’t,” I say in my lightest voice, trying to play it all off with a shrug and a little “oops” expression. “Like everything else that involves interacting with you, I’ve once again proven I’m out of my element up here in this penthouse. If only we could rewind the clock, huh? So sorry.”
“Stop trying to apologize!” he yells, still holding my gaze hostage. “You call what we just did interacting? Why did you kiss me like you just kissed me?” He shakes his head when I shrug again. “What we just did in there was beyond. Explain to me what in the hell just happened, because this kind of shit does not happen to me, my body or my mind.”
“You think I can explain it? You’re the one with the mind-bending make-out skills, and you’re the one with those lips and hands that were just everywhere, making me melt. Unable to think. And then you had me up against the wall. And that was so—um, well…” A nervous, shaking laugh escapes me, and I start trying to smooth my tangled hair. “I guess I can be honest, it was exciting and astounding because no one has ever—and I mean ever done that kiss-me-against-a wall-thing to me before and, I read it in books once or twice and so...” I glance up at him and the way his eyes are going over me makes me forget what I’m saying.
Which is good, because what in the hell am I saying to him? That I read books? Oh. God.
“Would you stop looking at me like I’m some sort of alien?” I ask, instead.
“I’m not. Am I? Christ. I just feel really bad right now.”
I'm blushing so hard again the tips of my ears hurt. I get a little more angr
y with him, and then, I get even more angry with myself. “Think how bad I feel that I almost handed my V-card to a guy who I can hardly stand.”
“What?”
“I’m saying this stuff doesn’t happen to me, either. I’m a master at control and planning.” I give up on fixing my hair and fling my arms wide. “I have years and years of stockpiled dreams about how I want my first time to be, and….” I shove a thumb over my shoulder toward the closet. “And it’s not supposed to be like that.”
“First time?” he whispers.
“Yes. It’s supposed to be magical, and full of actual love. White rose petals should at least be somewhere if not everywhere in the room. A room with the exact right music playing, some candles lit, and I think I’m supposed to be in Paris. London or Barcelona, slightly tipsy on a bubbling wine, all while wearing sultry perfume and a great outfit like a red dress or a little black dress even, but definitely not bad shorts and a t-shirt that’s half covered in baby formula, okay? And it will happen after I’ve had an amazing perfect date with my long-term boyfriend who, by the way, won’t be anyone’s baby-daddy, and he will have just escorted me up the Eiffel Tower or to that fancy church that Gaudi built. You know? The one that looks like melting sand? La…La…”
“I don’t think you should drop your V-card after visiting La Sagrada Familia. It would ruin the mood. That’s one strange looking church.”
I gasp. “You know the name of that church?”
“I have other interests beyond music. You like Gaudi?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, and yes, I love Gaudi.”
I look up at him and his expression flashes just as wild and confused as I feel, and suddenly he and I are both laughing a little, but in truth, we both sound slightly hysterical.
