Page 74 of The Parent Trap

Because kissing him is the most perfect and beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.

And that terrifies me.

Chapter Fifteen

Matthais

This is dangerous as hell.Naked in the sea with Delia—her body flush and soft against mine, her mouth greedy and desperate as she kisses me with furious intensity.

I want her.

Iwanther.

Need.

I’m hard as a diamond, wedged between our bodies, pressing into her belly. A dip of the knees, lift her up slightly, and I’ll be buried inside her, sinking to the hilt into her soft wet slick heat. I can almost feel her wrapped and clenching around me.

My hands have a mind of their own, clutching ravenously at the glorious weighty roundness of her ass, and I focus on kissing her, keeping it a kiss, nothing but a kiss.

Because I want so much more.

Everything.

But the way I want it…is not accidental. Not just because she’s overcome with lust and can’t help it. I want it in such a way that she knows what she’s doing. That she can talk about it.

She can do this, but she can’t even talk about me going down on her?

Her hands, like mine, seem to be moving as if guided more by instinct and raw carnal desire than eyes-open intention. She buries them in my hair, clawing at my scalp to crush me closer for a deeper, harder kiss—her tongue stabs into my mouth and her lips crash against mine, slip and scour. Then, her hands are all over my arms and shoulders and back, devouring the hardness of my muscles. Her body is against mine, breasts and belly and hips. Waves crash cold against my back, swelling up between us.

She moans into my mouth.

Then, with a gasp, she wrenches her lips from mine. Foreheads touching, she pants, staring down between our bodies.

“Delia,” I whisper. No clue what to say, then, what comes next.

I fill my hands with her ass, clutching and kneading and clawing—can’t get enough. Want her huge incredible soft tits with those thick puffy pink nipples and wide dark areolae, but she’s still pressed up against me, gasping for breath.

I bring my hands to her face, intending to pull away so I can get my hands on her breasts, but she has other ideas.

She grips my wrists, and her eyes meet mine. Her eyes are wide and blue, fierce and electric with wild desire. She’s holding my hands in place. Telling me with her grip on my wrists and with the plea in her eyes—don’t ruin this by talking; give me my way and don’t ruin the spell with stupid talking.

Deep breaths lift her chest, scraping the tips of her tits against my torso. Her hands drop from my wrists, drift to my chest. Her fingernails—I just notice for the first time that they’re long and perfectly manicured and painted a pastel candy pink—trail lightly down my chest, over my pecs, over my abs. I know what she’s doing, and I’m torn between desperate desire to feel her touch and a conflicted, almost self-sabotaging need to make sure she knows what she’s doing, what she’s getting herself into…that I’m not capable of just accepting a quick handjob and moving on, of ignoring the palpable wildfire chemistry between us.

Yet my voice is blocked. My intention to be a gentleman about this thing between us—to, for the first time maybe ever in my life, not just take what I want and move on—is utterly wrecked.

Especially as her fingernails continue their tickling, traipsing trail down my abs. My belly sucks inward, involuntarily. Teeth clench. I’m so hard it hurts. I’ve jerked off to thoughts of Delia McKenna’s goddess body every damn day, sometimes in the shower in the morningandlying down on my bed with a handful of Kleenex at night. Yet, no amount of draining myself can even touch the torrential flash flood of desire forher.

I swallow hard, and a groan escapes my gritted teeth when her fingers wrap around my cock. The waves swell between us, covering her hand and my aching member, and then recede back down around my hipbones. It’s cold—the water is icy, but our bodies are hot, radiating and pulsing with heat. Her teeth sink into her lower lip—her head is bowed, tilted down to watch herself touch me. She grips me in a light fist, and just holds me for a moment, as if wondering at the fact that her delicate, strong little hands can barely meet around me—her thumb and middle finger just barely touch. Her hand is so warm, and her touch is…crazy-making. My breath catches—I can’t even groan, now.

I’m going to stand here as long as it takes, and I’m going to let her do whatever she wants. We’ll just have to figure the rest out later. Because there is no fucking way on earth that I’m going to stop her from touching me.

So hard it hurts. Aching to explode. Balls are tight, swollen with seed needing release. I throb in her hands. And still, she just holds me in one hand—the other is flat against my chest, on my pec just below my shoulder. Her fist drops, sinking down around me to the root. Pauses there. Squeezes. And then her fingers slide up me, her touch light and gentle. When she reaches the apex of the stroke, her thumb rolls over my tip. This time, my groan is a coughing expulsion of ecstasy, dragged, ripped out of me. I’m still clutching her face, hands where she compelled me to leave them. Don’t dare move them.

Don’t dare even breathe—between groans, I’m holding my breath, involuntarily. Pleading for this dream, this fantasy, to continue. This isn’t real. I’m asleep, in bed, dreaming of this. I’m going to wake up alone and try to remember this as I jerk myself off with one rough fist.

The dream, the bubble of this fantasy, doesn’t pop.

She keeps touching me, slowly plunging her fingers down around me, tip to root over an eternity. Watching all the time, lip caught in her teeth. I’m taut all over, muscles straining as if I could isometrically clench myself hard enough to bring my orgasm about, as if I can will her to get me there faster.