Page 60 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

There’s a thing about kissing someone you’ve loved for years that they don’t tell you.

They don’t describe it in books or show it in movies.

They don’t talk about it in school hallways.

Or maybe they do, but I never knew it. Or maybe I knew it, but I don’t remember it in this moment, and so you don’t realize that when you kiss someone that you’ve wanted to kiss for ages, you never stop.

You can’t stop, because you lose all control. Every bit of it.

And it may be an exaggeration, because it’s probably only been five seconds since I put my mouth on his, since he realized that I’m not going to back off no matter what he told me, and so he decided to give in— thank fucking God —and kiss me back. But it’s no less true.

The moment our mouths touch, things ignite.

Stars explode in the sky. The moon is set on fire.

The moment I realize how hot and wet and soft his mouth is—as soft as the rest of his body is hard—my heart practically bangs against my chest at a bruising rhythm.

And I think it’s because the moment our lips touch, after ages and centuries of waiting and longing and dreaming and wishing, he takes over.

He steals my control, my will and me from myself.

And invades my mouth.

He makes me open it, forcefully, dominatingly, as if he has every right, and he does, doesn’t he, and thrusts his tongue inside.

That in itself would be okay, but he pairs that with taking a big swipe of me.

As if he wants to taste every corner and nook and cranny of my mouth, and he wants it all in the same lap.

He wants it all in a single bite and when he gets it, when he gets a hit of me, he groans.

Like he really was hungry for me. Like he really hasn’t eaten in years, or maybe he has but hasn’t tasted nearly anything as good as me. Better than even those strawberries he keeps eating in honor of me. Sweeter and tastier.

So much so that he leans over me. He buries his fingers in my long, long hair that I wore down for him, and slants his mouth on me harder.

He presses his hard abs into my soft belly and pushes his wildly breathing chest into mine as if wanting to glue ourselves to each other, so we never have to stop kissing.

Or maybe to leave the shape of his body behind when he does have to stop.

Whatever it is, I know he loves the taste of me more than anything else in this world because he licks me over and over and groans every time he gets a taste.

And since his will is my will, I do the same.

I bury my hands in his hair, all rich and thick and perpetually mussed up and falling over his forehead and grazing the neck of his t-shirts.

I arch my back so I’m even closer to him, my belly is all flattened under the heavy slab of his stomach, and my breasts are cushioned against the massive expanse of his chest. When I’m as close to him as I can get, I lick him too, and I’m not shy about it.

I don’t behave like this is my first kiss even though it is.

I don’t try to be demure or act like this is too much for a first ever kiss.

Like this isn’t everything I ever wanted.

Because it is everything I ever wanted. It has been the greatest wish of my life, to kiss him and be kissed by him.

But more than that, it has been my greatest wish to be consumed by him.

To be eaten and drunk down and be sucked on.

It’s been my greatest wish to be be bitten ever since I realized he’s not just a thorn, but he can also be a vicious viper with poison in his veins.

Ever since I realized being kissed by him would be equivalent to being stung.

So I tangle my tongue with his. I suck on his mouth and taste those lingering strawberries.

He’s eaten so many of those that by now they must be in his bloodstream.

And when I imagine them seeping into mine, I moan.

When I imagine his sweet poison running through my veins, my jugular, I not only moan, I also writhe.

Because how can I not? It’s natural. It’s instinctive.

It’s what I did for days on end and it’s what I’m going to do until he wants me to stop.

Dance for him. Twist my hips for him. Flex my thighs around his waist and hump his six pack.

I use him as a pole to move against his body as I kiss him and kiss him and fucking kiss him back.

But I should’ve known what would happen if I did that. If I danced for him.

Be it the strip club or his backyard, every time I move my body for his pleasure, my own spikes up. A quickening starts up in my belly and my thighs shake. My breasts get all heavy and I grow wet.

I’m wet now, getting wetter by the second.

My panties—that I had to change into after our encounter in the bathroom—are close to being ruined.

They’re all sticky and drenched and I think I may be leaving a stain on his dress shirt with all my humping.

And that turns me on so much that I almost come from all this stimulation.

But then I remember I probably shouldn’t be doing that.

I probably should not be leaving stains on his dress shirt and his jacket.

We’re not really at the strip club or in his— our —back yard.

We’re at a party where he’s one of the chief guests.

He can’t go in there with his clothes wet from my juices. We need to be careful.

In fact, we shouldn’t even be doing this out here, in plain sight. What if someone sees the Wrecking Thorn kissing his new stepsister? What if they put it on the internet for everyone to see? I don’t care about myself, but I care about him and his family, especially Snow. I care about his career.

So I go to push away from him. But again, I should’ve known.

If I dared to slow down and break our kiss, he’d only pull me closer.

He’d only fist my hair harder and press our mouths together, clacking our teeth.

He’d only growl in displeasure and kiss me harder.

He’d make me hump his body, make me leave a stain on his clothes, leave a trail of my juices.

Isn’t that something he loved from before?

He used to love it when I’d come in his lap and leave the evidence behind.

In fact, he’d make sure that I left the evidence.

He made sure I came so hard and so much that there would be a stain of my juices on his pants.

And that always made me go crazy. Crazier, even.

His domination, his possessiveness, the way he used to be almost desperate for my orgasms, even more than me.

And in turn I’d ride him harder, and I am.

My plan completely backfired and instead of coming up to the surface, I’m drowning in him even more.

Drowning in the quicksand of his kiss. I’m hanging from the ceiling and spinning like a top.

Somehow though, I still remember my initial goal, and somehow, I have enough wherewithal to pull at his hair and bite his lip, making him both shudder and grunt.

But it’s enough to break our connection for a second so I can whisper, my eyes barely open and unseeing, “N-not here. Not where anyone can s-see.”

It reminds me so much of our time before, when he’d come to the club and I’d take him away from the crowd to give him a private show, that when he comes back to kiss me, probably ignoring my plea, I let him.

That was all I had in me anyway. I can’t be any more rational or present in the moment than this.

I can’t live in the real world when I get to live in his kiss, his mouth, his thrusting tongue and his rough hands. His sweet taste and his guttural moans.

But again, for the millionth time, I should’ve known.

He won’t just ignore my plea, because he starts to walk.

I can feel his long and lunging steps taking us away somewhere, so we aren’t so out in the open.

I also know that he doesn’t do it for his benefit, he does it for mine.

He’d be damned if anyone saw me like this, wrapped around him, my body writhing and humping, my mouth fused to his as we kiss and kiss and don’t stop.

And I don’t know how I got so lucky. I don’t know what I did to be the object of his desire, his obsession.

His toxic and beautiful, over-the-top obsession that he said he’d explain to me with graphs and diagrams.

I know my luck will run out soon though.

Luck never lasts long, especially not with me.

Not in this case. But now is not the time to think about it.

Not when he’s still kissing me and taking me away somewhere.

Not when I know that when we get there, it’s only going to make things better.

I’m going to get something else, something more.

More than kissing. Something like an orgasm or multiple orgasms. Because isn’t that what always happened before ?

And somehow, I know we’re going to go over the edge tonight.

We have to. We’ve waited too long, see. We’ve stretched it out too much, this thing between us.

It needs to snap and it’s going to. Tonight. Right now.

I’m not sure how long he walks with me in his arms and our lips moving against each other, but suddenly we’ve come to a halt.

My back thumps against something, a tree I think, and I’m ready.

I’m ready for it to happen. In fact, I widen my thighs even more so he has space to settle.

I cross my ankles behind his back and grind my pelvis against his.

I grind and grind until I hit the treasure. The holy grail.

His dick.

All hard and hot. And stabbing me in the core even though it’s still sheathed.