Page 83 of Kill for a Kiss

I nod. “Yes.”

His fingers skim my shoulder, then glide down my arm until they find my wrist. He threads our fingers together, and the warmth of his palm in mine makes my heart thump.

The other sounds fill in the dark. The rustle of his clothes as he moves, the quiet drag of breath between us. The fire crackles nearby, casting heat across my legs, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coiling low between them.

The couch dips again as he leans in, and then I feel him. His lips press against my chin. His hot breath against my throat. My own breath comes out shaky. My body shivers from pleasure. The blindfold might’ve taken my sight, but I feeleverythingnow.

His lips move, lower, slower, brushing my throat, lingering there with such maddening restraint that I want to beg him to keep going, but I don’t. I let him take his time. Let him give in the way he wants to. Even if it pains me, rendering me to this whimpering desperation.

My fingers tighten in his, my breath shallow. He moves like he’s learning me, like every inch of my skin holds an answer he’s aching to know. And now he’s making me pay in-kind.

His free hand trails up the curve of my hips, brushing aside my shirt until warm air greets my bare chest.

“Elle,” he murmurs, so rough like desire scraped it raw.

“Yes, Sterling,” I whisper.

His fingers thread through mine, even as his other hand ghosts higher up my ribs in a line so slow it truly is torture. I arch into him. I can’t help it. He’s being too careful. And yet every inch of restraint he shows only makes the ache inside me worsen. But I want to beruined this deliberately, by the only man who’s ever made me feel like I’m worth taking his time with.

When his mouth finds my throat again, his lips part, groaning quietly against my pulse. I let out a long, breathy gasp. He stays there, like he’s listening to the way I breathe, to the way my heartbeat races. His touch slides to cup the curve of my breast fully, dragging heat with it. My breath catches again. My body coils. My voice comes out thin and needy. “Sterling…”

He groans again, low and guttural, and I feel it more than I hear it. His hand kneads my left breast, too gently. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, his deep voice hoarse.

“It’s not nearly enough.”

A strained noise leaves him—part laugh, part curse—and then he kisses me again. This time, with less restraint, but still slow, still steady. I see it now, that Sterling’s the type of person who devours, that he prefers taking his time to savor every moment we have.

The couch dips beneath us as he hovers over me, pressing into me with careful weight. His heat seeps through the thin barrier of our clothes, making me gasp against his moaning lips. His hands move, down my ribs, tracing each dip and curve like he’s not done memorizing me.

He kisses me like it’s the only language he knows. Deep, aching kisses that leave me dizzy and drunk on him. His hands never wander too far. They guide, they ask. And I eagerly give and give. When I gasp his name again, soft and breathless, he stills.

“I love it when you say my name,” he murmurs into our kiss.

My body clenches, my breath gone. I whisper again, “Sterling…”

He cradles my jaw, then breathes against my mouth. “Good girl.”

Thatruinsme. My body arches instinctively, my hands tightening in his shirt. He holds me together even when I’m coming undone under every burning touch. His mouth trails along my throat again,and I hear myself desperately whisper, “Please, Sterling…More…”

He groans, lips brushing my collarbone, then lower, until every inch of me is trembling. And when he kisses my right breast, while his hand kneads the other, I know there’s no going back. I want it all. And I wanteverythingfrom him.

His touches don’t rush, don’t devour the way his kisses do. Instead, they give me a taste of his desire, branding it across my skin.

He says my name again, but how he breathes it scorches me. I moan louder this time, my fingers curling into his hair, my other hand reaching to grip his broad shoulder. I want to touch more of him. All of him.

“Elle,” he murmurs again, and it’s a confession now. Or a plea, or a prayer. My mind’s far too gone to be able to tell, to even have cohesive thoughts.

“Sterling,” I breathe, just as softly.

I press my lips to his one more time. It’s a kiss that saysI see you. That I trust him. That I’ve fallen.

But then there’s a sound. A dull thud. And then another. They sound like footsteps.

My brows knit together behind the blindfold. Sterling goes rigid, but his arms don’t pull away. His breath changes. He sounds more alert. My heart skips, and something unexpected blooms in my chest. I realize that it’sexhilaration. Because the footsteps belong toStan.

I can’t see him, but I don’t have to. The air changes, charged with his presence the moment he’s inside the cabin. The warmth of the fire pales compared to the heat that rushes to my cheeks.

My fingers are curled into Sterling’s shirt, but every part of me is suddenly strung taut. Sterling breathes out slowly, his hand sliding to the back of my neck. I hear Stan’s heavy footsteps on the cabin floor. He must be seeing this—us—Sterling and me, in this compromised position on the couch Stan has been sleeping on in the past fewnights.