Married in Michigan Page 22

  Lies.

  I am. I’m very much seduced. I want him. God, do I want him.

  “You have to admit, though—that was a damn good kiss.”

  I sigh. “Yes, fine, whatever. It was pretty good.”

  I can’t say it with a straight face, though—a giggle escapes.

  “I love it when you laugh like that.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand. “I hate it. I’m not typically a giggly type of person.”

  He smiles, and this one is brilliant and warm and affectionate. “That’s why I love it. It’s cute, and sexy.”

  “A stupid, annoying giggle?”

  He’s leaning on an elbow, and now he rolls to lever over me. “Yes. A stupid, annoying giggle. Except it’s not stupid or annoying, it’s adorable and endearing and real and it makes me horny as hell.”

  I frown. “Me giggling makes you horny?” I laugh. “Weird, but okay.”

  “But then, everything about you turns me on, so…”

  I stare up at him, and I realize I’m stroking his back with both hands, my palms roaming his shoulders and spine—I wasn’t even aware I was doing it, but now that I am I’m drunk on how amazing his skin feels under my hands, and I want more.

  I hate my clothes. I want them to go away. I want to be naked with him. I want to kiss him and not stop, I want to hold him against me, skin to skin, and feel his heartbeat and I want to taste his flesh and hear him moan my name.

  I’ve wanted him for a long time.

  I’ve been denying it, fiercely and stubbornly ignoring it and denying it.

  I can’t, anymore.

  He’s not an asshole.

  He’s not just a rich, entitled, spoiled playboy with no morals or redeeming qualities.

  I mean, yeah, he’s rich and spoiled, and a playboy.

  But he has a lot of amazing qualities.

  He kisses like a god.

  He has the body of a god.

  I can’t hold out any longer. I can’t resist him anymore. I just can’t.

  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.”

  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’re beautiful.”

  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 never needed anyone 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 the V of 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 hot look 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.”

  My hands splay over his chest and rake down over his diaphragm, tracing and dancing over his abs— however he captures my wrists before I can grasp his erection.

  “First things first,” he says. “I need you naked. I need to see the rest of you.”

  I shift up to sit on my knees, unbutton my jeans and shimmy them down, flip to my butt on the mattress and yank them off, turning them inside out in the process, and then I’m clad in nothing but a pair of gray cotton hipster underwear. I begin tugging them down, but Paxton stops me.

  “Please,” he says, his tone formal. “Allow me.”

  I lie back, lift my butt off the bed, and he slowly drags the last of my clothing down, peeling the underwear off me inch by inch. When they’re clear of my toes, he drops off the edge of the bed and turns to me, eyes slowly and deliberately taking me in, head to toes and again and again, pausing here and there. Breasts, hips, core.

  He licks his lips, sidles over to me, eyes sparking in a blaze of arousal. “We’ve been dancing around this attraction for a long time, Makayla,” he says, taking my calf in his hands and teasing his fingertips up to my thigh, spreading my thighs apart in the process. “I’m not sure I’m capable of holding back any longer.”

  “Don’t,” I murmur.

  “No?” He bends over my legs, touching his lips to the quads of my left thigh. “You don’t want to take it slow?”

  I shake my head, swallowing hard as he dances kisses over my thigh, then to the other leg, then across again, inching upward with each kiss. “Slow…bad,” I breathe.

  He grins. “Sounds like you’re getting a little bothered, Makayla.”

  I gather his hair in my hands and guide him where I want him—he resists my efforts to hurry him closer to my core, instead taking his time getting there kiss by kiss. I growl as he laughs, and his eyes twinkle, sparkle, and snap. Finally, his kisses land on my hipbones, one and then the other, and I’m barely breathing, fingers knotted in his hair, hips lifting—my core is questing, seeking his lips.

  “Not shy about what you want, are you?” he says.

  I shake my head. “Nope. Now that I’ve given up trying to resist you, I fucking want you, Paxton. So bad. Worse than I’ve ever wanted a man in my life.”

  “Is that so?” He says this with a smirk, kneeling between my outspread thighs, hands cradling my hips. “You want me?”

  My eyes blaze, meeting his. “Don’t play, Pax. You know I do. You’ve always known I do.”

  A shrug, an arched eyebrow. “I don’t know, Makayla. You do play a pretty good game of hard to read.” He pauses to kiss me just below my navel, then lower. And lower. I gasp, arch my hips, straining upward. “Sometimes I wondered if you even liked me as a person, much less felt attraction for me.”

  I play with his hair, both hands buried in it, tangling, knotting, smoothing. “That was a tactic. Trying to make myself believe I wasn’t crazy about you. If I acted like I couldn’t stand you as a person, it was easier to pretend I wasn’t wildly attracted to you, physically.”

  “Did it work?”

  I shrug. “For a while. Then, no. The more I got to know you, especially seeing you work at the meetings and dinners and cocktail mixers, the more I saw that there’s a lot more to you than I was giving you credit for.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?” I bite my lip, eyes on his. “Now, I just want this. I want us. I want…” I pause to fight for breath, for words. “More than I thought I wanted.”

  Paxton’s mouth hovers over my core, his eyes on mine—golden brown, heated, aroused, hungry. “I feel like I could lose myself in you, and never come back.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I ask.

  He huffs a laugh. “I don’t even know. It’s scary.”

  I brush a thumb over his lips. “Can we talk about this after?”

  He grins. “I love the way you think.”

  I watch him as he lowers his mouth—but he misses my center. Instead, his lips nuzzle the tender, silk-soft, sensitive flesh just between inner thigh and the delicacy of my sex. A tongue flick, a nibbling kiss. Then the other side. I breathe rapidly, quake all over, expecting his tongue and the heat of his mouth on my sex any moment, needing it more than I’ve ever needed anything. I could forgo breathing to get his mouth on me. I gasp, whimper, watching him continue to tease me, lips dancing over my thighs and navel and pubis, everywhere except where I want it.

  “Paxton!” I cry out. “Please.”

  He laughs. “God, you’re sexy when you beg.”

  I snarl. “Quit messing around, Paxton.”

  He meets my eyes, smirking. “Fine. But on one condition.”

  I just blink at him. “Condition? Really?”

  “It’s an easy one.” He slides up my body, and I feel his straining erection gliding and stuttering against my thigh as he hovers over me, lips centimeters from mine. “You c
all me Pax from now on. Just Pax.”

  “All the time, or when we’re alone?”

  “All the time. Everyone calls me Paxton.” His smile is tender. “I’ve always been Paxton, the full name. You’ve called me Pax a few times, now, and I…I really like it.”

  I can’t help but feel special. “All right…Pax.” I cup his cheeks. “Now, Pax…please. Please.”

  “Please what?” he teases.

  I glare at him. “Don’t.”

  He shifts down my body, grinning at me. “Fine. No more teasing.” He comes to a halt between my thighs, and I let my legs splay apart for him.

  His eyes lock onto my sex, and his eyes darken with aroused heat. “So fucking beautiful.” A glance at me as he palms my belly with both hands, and then his touch grazes down, framing my core. “You know how often I’ve fantasized about this?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t know you’ve fantasized about me.”

  He smirks. “I have. A lot. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it.”

  I run my hands over his arms, his shoulders, his back, touching the burly, rippling muscle. “Well, Pax, here I am, live and in person, and all for you.” I gaze at him with hooded lids, expectant. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Make you scream,” he murmurs. “Long, and loud.”

  “Prove it.”

  He buries his mouth against my core, tongue flicking fast against my sensitive center, the tiny nub of nerves assaulted by a frenzy of tongue-lashing licks. I cry out, unashamed, wanton—lift my hips to press hard against his mouth, and his hands curl under me, grab my ass and hold me. I rest against his hold, back arched, hips flexing. It’s zero to one hundred in seconds flat, so aroused by all the teasing and needing that when he finally does lap at me with his talented tongue, I’m there in moments. Whimpering, gasping, crying out, shifting against his mouth and now I’m grinding harder and faster as his mouth works up to a quaking climax. I teeter on the edge, and then fall over and he doesn’t relent, devours me through it and the orgasm is a whirlwind of heat and pressure, ripping me apart and drowning me, flinging me to heaven and splintering me to pieces. Wave after wave of ecstasy soars through me, and I am screaming, as promised, and I don’t hold back, don’t try to quiet myself. I don’t care. I want him to know how he makes me feel, and I show him.