Page 123 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“I don’t know,” I breathe.

“You don’t know?” he says, slowly. He hasn’t stopped what he’s doing but he’s not doing anything else, either. “You have no idea what you want?”

There’s a long pause where I try to think, half mortified and half horny as fuck.

“Tell me what you need, Kat,” he says, in that low, scratchy, teasing voice he has. “I’ll give it to you if you ask.”

“The other one, too,” I finally say, and I’m immediately rewarded with a hard pinch on my other very prominent nipple. The weird noise I’ve been trying not to make comes out, and Silas gasps in response.

“Tell me what else,” he rasps, so I grab his head and haul him down and get a long, slow kiss while I feel like I’m shivering apart. I nip at his lower lip with my teeth and pull back when the kiss ends, listening to his shuddering breath. He hasn’t stopped swirling his thumbs over my nipples and he hasn’t done anything else, either.

I stare at him for a long moment and let the small, delicious friction flow over me until it’s blocking out everything else. I’ve got goosebumps everywhere. Silas watches me, eyes dark, and something else untangles deep inside me at that look.

“Use your mouth,” I say, the words oddly loud in the quiet kitchen.

“Where?”

I grab one hand and press it into my breast, letting his palm slide over fabric and over my nipple, and that gets another grin out of him. Silas spins us around, pushes me into the counter, my hands automatically finding the edge as he lowers his head to that nipple and bites it, still through the fabric.

“Oh,” I hiss, the word half-swallowed. Silas looks up at me. Runs his tongue across the nipple between his teeth and as I make another noise, he’s on his knees and I’m watching him do exactly what I just asked for.

I have to force myself to take a breath.

When he looks up at me through his eyelashes, from his knees, I want to take a picture. I want to paint a portrait and hang it next to my bed, because Silas is beautiful and kneeling and gazing up like he’s completely at my beck and call and oh, fuck. Fuck.

“Other one,” I say, to see him do what I say and he does: bites my nipple one last time, drags his tongue over the other and my eyes flutter closed. The wet spot that’s now on my dress goes cold and I exhale, hard, try not to think about how that’s a little gross and just enjoy it.

It’s not difficult. I sink my fingers into his hair, let the waves curl around my fingers. He looks at me again and I brush a thumb over his cheekbone, turned on as hell and feeling a little drunk with sexy power.

“So pretty,” I murmur. I don’t mean to. It just comes out and the second it does I think oh God what the fuck but the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling and he sucks at my nipple through the cloth and I make another noise because it has no right to feel that good, but it does.

“Put your hands under my dress,” I tell him, and both his hands find my knees, slide up until he’s got one knuckle under the hem, and stops. He’s still looking at me, like he’s waiting for something. Toying with me, maybe.

“Higher,” I growl, because of course I don’t mean touch my knees. “All the way up.”

He does, and when his fingers reach my hips his breathing hitches and his tongue stops for a moment, and then he rests his head right on my sternum and laughs.

“Kat,” he says. “Goddamn.”

I am, uh, sort of not wearing panties either because I was feeling both pretty brave and pretty horny when I left my house.

“You mind?” I ask, mock-demure because I know the answer. I’m standing here against the counter with my legs apart, the straps of my dress falling off my shoulders, and nipples visible as fuck through the two giant wet spots on my dress. There’s a huge bulge in his shorts. I know he doesn’t mind, I want to hear him say it.

“Fuck no, I don’t mind,” he says, his thumbs stroking the crease between my hip and my thigh. Then he looks up at me, lust written all over his face, and says, “Tell me.”

I have to remind myself to breathe, my brain shorting out a little, when he looks at me like that, and still the words stick in my throat. God, I’m bad at this.

“Are you right-handed?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I can’t get the words out but I grab his right hand by the wrist, splay his fingers on my lower belly. Run my own fingers along them, not really caring that it lifts the hem of my skirt.

“You look good like that,” I tell him, and I barely recognize my own voice.

“So do you,” he breathes. “Holy fuck, Kat, this view.”

I find his thumb and he lets me bend it down, between my legs, and I shift my hips and he moves his hand until suddenly the pad of his thumb finds my clit and I make a small, soft noise.