Page 85 of Married in Michigan

What’s more, I don’t want to.

I stare up at him, and there’s no more sass, no more attitude, no more stubbornness—just me and him, a man and a woman…

Falling for each other.

“Dammit,” I whisper.

He winks at me. “Gotcha.”

I roll my eyes and groan. “Fine. Yes, you do.”

He blinks. “Wait, what?”

I reach up, wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull him down to me. “I said you got me.” I whisper, lips moving against his. “Try to keep up, Paxton.”

19

He’s about to say something else, and I’m just not about talking anymore. I kiss him, to shut him up.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, something I’ve wanted to do since I first saw him—asleep in that bed, hair mussed and splayed against the crisp white pillow. I pull his face down to mine and lift up—it starts as me kissing him, and quickly becomes something else.

Something more.

Sometimes, a kiss is just a kiss—the first time, that’s what it was, Paxton kissing me to prove a point.

Other times, a kiss is something more. It’s a gateway drug to the heavy stuff.

This is one of those kisses.

Lips on lips at first, my fingers in his hair, his hand planted in the mattress on either side of me. Then he lowers himself to lean on one elbow and slides his arm under my neck to support my head, and rests his body against mine—giving me a portion of his weight. I have both hands free, and I use them to explore his body. No longer just shoulders—I touch his jaw, his cheekbones; trace his spine down to the waist of his pants, up his side. He’s cupping my cheek, thumb rubbing my cheekbone and temple, and then he’s clutching the back of my neck and deepening the kiss.

I’m on fire.

I need him—need more.

I want him to take over—to touch me. To strip me naked and kiss me delirious and make me scream.

But I don’t have the words to say that—I’m too busy kissing him, something I suddenly can’t seem to get enough of, something I don’t dare stop doing for fear my heart will stop. Kissing him is my lifeline, right now, and it’s all there is.

But I need more.

I press my hips up, flex them against his. I feel him—there’s no mistaking that he wants more, too.

His desire is a thick, hard ridge between our bodies, separated by several layers.

But all he’s doing is kissing me—his fingers tangle in my hair, and his tongue thrusts into my mouth and demands my tongue, but he’s making no move to push this beyond kissing.

God, do I have to do everything?

“Pax…” I murmur, sadly breaking the kiss—and I feel my heart break a little as I lose the wonder of his mouth on mine. “Too many clothes.”

He smirks. God, that smirk. “Me, or you?”

I reach between us, hunt for the tab of his zipper, or anything that will get me more of him. “Both.”

I find the zipper, yank it down. Fumble at the button, and then finally the trousers sag open and he lifts up and yanks them down, and he kicks them off. Black briefs, stretchy cotton molded around trim hips and a bulging erection. I reach for them, too, but he grins, and pulls away.

“Ah ah ah,” he says, capturing my hands in one of his. “My turn.”