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My breath hitches when his gaze drops to my mouth, and I think I might beg him to kiss me if he doesn’t.
“Fuck,” he growls, reaching for me, his hand sliding into my hair.
My hands go to his hips when he moves into me, and then his mouth is claiming mine like he’s waited too damn long for this moment. His other hand finds my waist, strong and sure, pulling me against him. Exactly where I want to be.
He’s all hard muscle and restrained dominance. I feel every inch of him and want it all more than I’ve wanted anything.
My hands move to his abs, his chest, his neck, and I press myself against him harder, chasing the pressure. Needing everything he can give.
When my fingers dig into his neck, he groans and deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping over mine. His restraint slips and then he’s demanding, taking what he wants.
There is absolutely nothing tentative about this kiss. No hesitation. Just heat and hunger and the rough edge of want that’s been daring us to cross this line.
Gage slides his hand to my face, fingers pressing into my neck and jaw, firm and unrelenting. The way he holds me there, like heneedsto, is more intimate than half the sex I’ve ever had.
It clears every thought from my mind and lets my body take over.
My hands are on his shirt.
My fingers are tearing at buttons.
My desire consuming me.
I’ve got his shirt open and halfway off when he drags his mouth from mine and grips my face with both hands. His eyes bore into me, wild with lust. “Tell me to stop.”
My brain tries to catch up. “Why?” I’m breathless. Confused as to why he’s saying that.
“Because I don’t think this is what you want. Not yet.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He lets go of my face. “Amelia.” His voice is raw, like he’s only just managing to hold himself back from what he wants. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”
“You’re not.” I reach for his belt with the kind of sexual confidence I don’t really have. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Fuck.” He utters just one word, but the way he drops it between us undoes me.
I see his desire for me.
I hear it.
And I feel it.
God, do I feel it.
I could easily get addicted to this man if he keeps looking at me the way he is.
He lets me undo his belt buckle.
I keep my eyes on his every second that takes.
Then, I flick the button on his pants and am about to lower his zip when his hand comes to mine, stopping me.
“We do this,” he says, “and everything changes.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“You just want me to fuck you.” His eyes are absolutely refusing to let mine go. “And then you want to go back to just being parents who help each other out with childcare?”