Page 5 of Big and Grumpy (Big Boys Love Curves #2)

five

Marigold

The kiss breaks something loose inside both of us, some carefully constructed wall we've been hiding behind. Holt tastes like wine and possibility, and when his hands tangle in my hair, I feel like I'm flying and falling at the same time.

"We should slow down," he says against my lips, even as his hands are mapping the curves of my waist.

"Should we?" My voice is breathless, and I'm looking at him with eyes that I know are dark with desire.

"You're staying in my guest room. I don't want you to think I invited you here for this."

"I don't think that." I reach up and trace the line of his jaw with one finger, feeling the slight roughness of stubble. "But I think we both want this."

I'm right, and we both know it. The attraction has been building for weeks, through shared coffee breaks and easy conversations and the thousand small kindnesses we've been trading back and forth.

"Marigold," he says, as a question for what we both know the answer to.

"Yes," I whisper, and that's all the permission he needs.

When Holt lifts me easily from the couch, I feel like I'm flying. He carries me to his bedroom with sure steps, and I'm struck by how right this feels—being in his arms, in his space, finally giving in to what we've both been fighting.

His bedroom is as masculine as the rest of the cabin, all dark wood and clean lines, but the bed is made with military precision and there are books stacked on the nightstand that suggest hidden depths.

He sets me down beside the bed, his hands framing my face as he studies my expression in the dim light from the hallway.

His shirt falls open, revealing a broad chest covered with dark hair.

I run my hands over the hard muscle, surprised by the contrast between his rough exterior and careful touch.

When my fingers trace the line of hair disappearing beneath his jeans, he sucks in a sharp breath.

I open the button of his jeans and drag the zipper down.

"Marigold," he says, my name coming out like a growl.

Then his mouth is on mine again, demanding and hard.

His tongue isn't gentle, and I wouldn't want it to be.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing and carries me to his bedroom, dropping me onto his bed.

His eyes lock on mine as he yanks my sweater up and off, his jaw clenching when he sees my black lace bra.

"Damn," is all he says, his large, calloused hands covering my breasts, thumbs roughly circling my nipples through the lace.

My body responds instantly. I've never been with someone so unapologetically masculine, so direct in what he wants.

I reach behind to unclasp my bra, and Holt's eyes narrow as I pull it off. He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat.

"Christ," he mutters, lowering his head to my breast.

The wet heat of his tongue sends electricity coursing through me, and I arch into his touch, wanting more.

He lavishes attention on one breast then the other, alternating between gentle suction and teasing flicks of his tongue that have me gasping his name.

His hand trails down my stomach to the waistband of my leggings, pausing there in silent question.

"Yes," I whisper. "Please, Holt."

He peels the leggings down my legs with agonizing slowness, his eyes feasting on every inch of newly revealed skin. When I'm left in nothing but my matching black panties, he sits back on his heels to admire me.

"I need to see all of you," he says, his voice rough with want.

I lift my hips, allowing him to slide my panties down and off. The cool air of the bedroom raises goosebumps on my heated skin, but Holt's gaze burns hotter than any fire.

Holt is so big, even a girl my size is easy for him to throw around.

His large hands explore every inch of me, discovering places I didn't even know could bring pleasure.

When he finds the spot where my neck meets my shoulder that makes me gasp, he returns to it, learning my body with the focused attention of a craftsman.

"I need to taste you," he says, his voice a rough command that sends shivers down my spine.

And then he's moving down my body, pressing open-mouthed kisses across my stomach, my hips, the soft insides of my thighs.

He positions himself between my legs, his broad shoulders pushing them further apart.

The first touch of his mouth against my center tears a cry from my throat that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for self-consciousness left.

"That's it," he encourages, his dark eyes watching my face as he works his tongue against me. "Let me hear you, Marigold."

His tongue traces lazy circles around my clit before dipping lower to explore my folds.

Each stroke is deliberate, designed to build my pleasure incrementally.

His fingers join his mouth, one thick digit sliding inside me, then two, stretching and filling me with exquisite care, while his tongue continues its relentless assault on my most sensitive bundle of nerves.

The sensation builds and builds until I'm clutching at his shoulders, my nails leaving half-moon impressions in his skin. My hips rock against his face, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's giving me.

"Please," I beg, not even sure what I'm asking for. "Holt, please."

He understands my incoherent plea. Rising above me, he quickly sheds his jeans and boxers, revealing his impressive arousal. He settles between my thighs, the hard length of him pressing against my entrance in tantalizing promise. His eyes search mine, seeking final confirmation.

"Yes," I whisper. "I want you."

When he enters me, the feeling of fullness is so perfect, so complete, that tears spring to my eyes. He's large in every way, stretching me in a delicious burn that borders on too much.

"You okay?" he asks immediately, freezing in place, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint.

"Better than okay," I assure him, wrapping my legs around his waist to draw him deeper. "Don't stop."

What follows is unlike anything I've ever experienced.

Holt moves with the controlled power that defines him, each thrust precisely calibrated to bring maximum pleasure.

He starts slow and deep, gradually building a rhythm that has me clutching at his back, my heels digging into his firm buttocks.

His eyes never leave my face, watching every reaction, learning what makes me sigh and what makes me moan.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my throat, his voice rough with desire as he takes his time with me, building the pleasure until I'm gasping his name. "So perfect, Marigold. I've been wanting this, wanting you, for weeks."

I run my hands over the muscled expanse of his back, feeling the power coiled there as he moves above me and within me. Every thrust pushes me higher, closer to a peak I can feel building with unstoppable force.

When he shifts slightly, changing the angle so that he hits a spot deep inside me, I know I'm close. The pressure builds and builds, winding tighter with each movement of his hips. He seems to sense my approaching climax, his thrusts becoming more targeted, more insistent.

His hand slips between our bodies, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation of him filling me completely while his thumb works tight circles against my most sensitive spot is overwhelming.

"Let go," he whispers, his own control visibly slipping, sweat beading on his forehead. "I've got you, Marigold. Let go for me."

His words, combined with the perfect pressure of his body against mine, inside mine, catapult me over the edge.

When he finally claims me completely, I cry out his name with such perfect abandon that I feel something fundamental shift inside my chest. This isn't just physical—it's emotional, spiritual, the kind of connection I'd given up believing in after my ex-fiancé shattered my faith in love.

"Holt," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as waves of sensation crash over me. "Oh God, Holt."

I shatter around him, my inner walls pulsing and clenching, pulling him deeper.

Pleasure so intense it's almost pain washes through me in endless waves.

The intensity of my release triggers his own—he follows moments later, burying himself to the hilt as he finds his release, filling me hot and deep.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest and his arms wrapped protectively around me.

The storm still rages outside, rattling the windows and lashing rain against the roof, but here in the warmth of his bed, I feel a peace I haven't known in years.

His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my ear, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.

I sigh happily, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I should probably warn you—I'm not good at casual."

"Good," Holt says firmly. "Because neither am I."