Page 77 of Worshiping Faith

Fuck.

Her lips part just slightly, her brows pulling together like she’s feeling something she doesn’t quite know what to do with. “Shut up, Zachs,” she whispers.

And kisses me.

Damn.

I swear I feel it first. That rush of heat curling through my blood, setting me on fire.

Her lips are warm, soft, a perfect contrast to everything that’s ever touched me. She melts against me, and I take my time, tasting her, memorizing the way she gasps when I tease the seam of her lips with my tongue.

Fuck, that sound.

She fists my shirt, pulling me deeper, and I go, slow and savoring, pressing into her like I can brand myself there.

She’s breathless when I pull back, her fingers still curled in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll move.

I brush a thumb across her bottom lip, swallowing the sound she makes.

“Again,” I murmur, my lips barely ghosting hers.

She exhales shakily, but I feel her smile.

Then she kisses me again.

Do we have time for this?

Do we not?

Nothing in this fucking world is guaranteed, except that right now I need to give her everything.

I think about the rooms, the layouts. She’s not the kind of woman you toss against a wall. She deserves a bed. Softness. But there’s no time, and she’s already on me, pressing against my chest, her hands greedy, searching, demanding.

Holy fuck.

I can’t think. I don’t want to.

“Want to scream my name?” I murmur, voice low, rough.

She doesn’t answer. She just backs me against the wall.

Dear. Fucking. God.

She’s got no clue how deep I am. How lost. How fucking hers I’ve been from the second she let me have her.

I’m gonna make her feel it.

Every.

Fucking.

Ounce.

“Not here,” I grit out, catching her wrist, dragging her toward the first open door I see.

Inside. No bed.

Just a table.