Page 83 of Married in Michigan

“And that means I have no control over whether I want to sleep with you. I’m physically attracted to you, so I’m just going to lose all self-control, suddenly, and throw myself at you. Like, please, take me, Paxton?”

“Not that you have no self-control. You obviously do, and a shitload of it. But you say it like throwing yourself at me is the most far-fetched notion you’ve ever heard.”

“What pisses me off is the assumption, Paxton. You’re so fucking arrogant and presumptuous. Like,of courseI’d sleep with you—ifyouchose to sleep with me,of courseI would. I wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

“So, what you’re saying is, if I did this…” He leans close, and sparks dance up and down my spine, crackling over my lips—all before he makes contact—and then, his lips touch mine, and fire sings through my veins, making me shake all over, making my blood race. “It wouldn’t do anything to you?”

I manage to breathe again, somehow. “Nope,” I lie, popping thePsound.

He smirks. “I see. You didn’t stop me from kissing you, I notice.”

“It was okay. Decent, as far as kisses go.” I’m lying through my damn teeth—it was the best damn kiss I’ve ever experienced, and it lasted a fraction of a second.

I wonder if he can tell.

“Just decent?” He shakes his head. “That won’t do. Can I get another chance? I’m sure I can do better.”

I shrug, faking nonchalance. “Sure. Knock yourself out, champ.”

He laughs. He sees through my bluff, and calls me on it. “Okay. Here we go—I’m gonna kiss you so hard your panties will all but fall off of their own accord.”

His grin is so cocky, so confident, so arrogant and intoxicating and infuriating—he means it. He knows damn well that he’s perfectly capable of doing exactly that.

“You ready, Makayla?” He gathers me in his arms, curls me against his big hard body, his arm wrapped behind my neck and shoulders, the other hand splayed against my cheek. “Here it comes.”

I have plenty of time to push him off. To wriggle out of his hold. To tell him no, don’t kiss me.

I do none of these things.

What I do, irresponsibly, is tilt my face up to his, and part my lips, and close my eyes. Luxuriate in the strong warmth and protection of his arms, and fall deliriously into the wild heat of his kiss. His mouth slashes across mine, and his lips claim me. There’s no buildup, no touch of lips and pause, seek, dance, play—no, this is a sudden and all-out assault. He’s leaning into me, not quite on top of me but nearly, and his tongue assails the inside of my mouth and tangles with my tongue, and I have never, ever, ever even conceived of anything like this. This isn’t a kiss, it’s mouth-sex. Tongue fucking. An oral claim. It’s a kiss that says

YOU—ARE—MINE.

My body is on fire, and the only way to extinguish the flames is Paxton. Yet, the more I kiss him, the hotter the fires burn. I press my thighs together to ease the ache between them caused by this kiss. It goes on, and on. His tongue plunderers my mouth, and his fingers brush into my hair, tangling and tugging, pulling, not quite yanking but definitely exerting control over me and this kiss via my hair. He has a double handful of my hair, actually, and now he is above me, hovering over me, his big body blocking out the moon and the starlight and everything, and—where are my hands?

Oh, there they are.

Ripping at his shirt. Pushing it up, and I’m the one to break the kiss just long enough to get the opening over his head, and then I’m seeking his mouth again, demanding he give me the kiss back. And oh, he does. My hands splay on his shoulders—his skin is hot to the touch, and the muscles in his back ripple. He is devouring me—kissing me as if this kiss is required to save my life. As if to stop this kiss is to stop breathing—and honestly, that sounds feasible. I am worried if I don’t get more of him, more of this kiss, more of his hard muscles and firm flesh that I will die of lack, of asphyxiation, of need.

On, and on.

Until I’m gasping for breath and he’s still kissing me.

He breaks away, and he’s panting. I’m gasping, and my core is aching, and my breasts feel full and heavy and my nipples are hard beneath my bra. All of me needsmore.

“There,” he whispers. “How was that?”

I don’t have what it takes to play the game anymore. He kissed the attitude out of me—kissed the defiance and stubbornness right out of my system. All that’s left now is pure, raw, unadulterated desire.

Manic lust.

I blink away clouds of hazy confusion—the kiss was so intoxicating that I’m not sure for a moment who I am or where I am.

“Dammit, Paxton,” I whisper.

He smirks, obnoxiously cocky, damningly beautiful; the arrogant, knowing wink is just over the top. “Gotcha.”

“I’m still wearing my underwear,” I manage.