Page 86 of Married in Michigan

I bite my lower lip. “Oh, it’s your turn is it?”

“Yes,” he growls. “I’ve been dying for this moment since I first laid eyes on you in that idiotic maid outfit.”

“It’s the least flattering thing I could possibly have worn.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I didn’t realize how fucking gorgeous you are, at first. Then I saw you on the sidewalk in those workout clothes, and holy fuck, I almost crashed.”

I snort. “You did not.”

“Well, no. But I fought a monster hard-on all the way to my parents’ house. Those fucking shorts, and that fucking bra? Goddamn, Makayla.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s comfortable to lift in. I don’t wear clothes like that for attention.”

“No shit. That’s why it’s so hot. You genuinely don’t seem to care who thinks what of you, and you probably don’t even realize how gorgeous you are.”

I pull a face at him. “I know what I look like, Paxton.” I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t grow up endowed like I am and not understand the effect big boobs have on the straight male populations of the world.”

He shakes his head, his eyes not moving from mine. “No, Makayla. That’s not what I mean.” He cups my face, kisses me, and pulls away again. “You’rebeautiful.”

I blink, feeling caught by sudden emotions, for some dumb reason. “Paxton, come on.”

He shakes his head again. “You’re incredible, Makayla.” A smirk, then, taking some of the seriousness out of the situation. “Also, boobs.”

I laugh, a grateful snort. “Yeah, exactly. Boobs.” I can’t do serious, right now. I want him, and I don’t want it to be all emotional.

He kisses my forehead, my cheekbone. “For real, Makayla. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” His kisses descend to my throat. “I’ve never been so attracted to another human being in all my life.”

I let my hands curl around his neck and the back of his head, following his descent, kiss by kiss. “Pax…”

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says, kissing my shoulder blade.

He glances up at me, and then returns to kissing and talking.

“I’ve neverneededanyone the way I need you.” He says this, and then kisses the hollow under my throat.

My breath is coming in shallow gasps—he’s bringing his kisses lower, now, closer to the valley of my cleavage. I’m still fully clothed; what am I even wearing? Fitted jeans, and a sleeveless button-down shirt; I’d worn plain black pumps and a light suede bomber jacket with it. Under the sleeveless cotton-blend shirt, I’m wearing one of a series of bras Julie added to my wardrobe—I had to be fitted for a bra, and discovered I’ve been wearing the wrong size all of my adult life, the difference in comfort is remarkable. I wanted to just get a few more sports bras, but Julie put her foot down hard on that—they didn’t have to be push-up demi-cup bras or anything ridiculous, but they had to be real, actual bras.

So, I’m wearing a bra that actually supports as well as shows off my cleavage, and it is down into this display that Paxton is slowly making his way.

Nowhere near fast enough for me.

I throw my head back and gasp as he nuzzles deeper into theVof flesh, kissing and nipping the skin. Then, he pauses. Looks up into my eyes. Waiting. Asking if I’m going to stop him.

I bite my lip, grin, lift my chest. It’s all the encouragement Paxton needs—unhurriedly, he slips open the buttons, one by one from the top down, and his gaze rakes from my eyes to my chest and back, as if he can’t decide where he wants to look more. I hold still, barely breathing. It takes an eternity and barely an instant at once—and then my shirt is draping open, revealing the black silk and lace enveloping and supporting my breasts, and the expanse of mounded flesh, and Paxton loses the war to gaze adoringly into my eyes...this is unsurprising, seeing as he’s faced with my nearly bared cleavage.

I sit up, and he slips the shirt off, tosses it aside. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I—words are unnecessary now. I reach up behind me, unclasp my bra, let the garment hang for a moment, arms crossed in front to keep the cups in place, my eyes locked on his. And then, with a grin and a flourish, I flick the bra away across the room.

Paxton gulps audibly. “Fuck me, Makayla.”

I sit on his bed, hands resting on my knees, and let him look. I’m not shy, not hesitant. I like his eyes on me; I like the desire, the awe. He just looks for a long time, nearly a minute, and then he surges forward toward me, and I stay in place, let him come to me.

I expect him to take a handful, or two, but instead he wraps me in his arms and we’re pressed together, chest to chest, skin to skin, and his mouth crashes against mine, tongue slashing into my mouth. We fall backward onto the bed, Paxton on top of me, his weight crushing me beautifully. I hook my legs around his and lock my arms around his neck and kiss him frantically, desperately, and now I can’t help but need him, need more, more; I delve my hands between our bodies and shove at his underwear, fingers curling inside the elastic and pulling down. He lifts his hips and I tug the stretchy black undergarment off, and he kicks them away and yes, please, god yes he’s naked, beautifully nude for me, and I push him over to his back so I can just look at him. I sit up, and he crosses his arms under his head and grins, and the cocky, arrogant,I know I’m hotlook on his face is infuriating and intoxicating at the same time.

So—fucking—gorgeous.

Broad shoulders, flat hard pecs, bulging arms, corded forearms, rippled six-pack abs, narrow hips—a smattering of dark chest hair and a happy trail to the promised land…a massive erection. Thick, long, straight, standing up against his navel, straining, veined, a plump bulbous head.

“God, Paxton,” I breathe. “You’re incredible.”