38. When You Kiss Me Like This

38

WHEN YOU KISS ME LIKE THIS

Maeve

It doesn’t surprise me that Asher has a plan. He always has a plan. He always knows how to handle any situation.

Including, evidently, me .

Except I’m not entirely sure what to expect next, especially when he cups my jaw with a firm grip, levels me with a dark stare, and then says, in a voice that’s not at all friendly, “Don’t move.”

Like I’d do anything else but obey him. A shiver rushes down my back, and I nod. He runs his hand along the side of my hair, over my shoulder, along the top of my arm. Then he rises from the couch, watches me for a beat as he moves around the piece of furniture, and stands behind me.

Anticipation thrums through my body, like bubbles in a champagne glass, and I look up and back at him, wondering once more what his plan for me is but thrilled that he clearly has one .

He places both hands on my head, then runs them down gently over my hair. Stroking it. Once, twice, then a third time, before he gathers all my strands between his hands, sliding his fingers through them, fashioning them into a ponytail. His touch is soothing and sexy all at once. I’m warm everywhere, like honey.

His thumbs stroke my hairline tenderly. Then he lets go, bends down, and brings his face near mine, his breath coasting across my cheek. “Do you have any idea how sexy your neck is?”

I tremble, shaking my head. I’m not even sure I was aware that he was into my neck.

“Sometimes I stare at your neck. When I think you’re not looking. And I imagine kissing you there,” he says, his voice a husky rasp.

“You do?” I’m kind of amazed at the specificity of this…want.

“Let me show you,” he says. Then he sweeps my hair up to the left side and dusts a soft, sensual kiss to the back of my neck. My shoulders bunch up in pleasure. He takes his time, his lips traveling over my skin, then down the side of my neck toward my collarbone, pushing the T-shirt over an inch or so. He presses open-mouthed caresses there while he cups the side of my face in his left hand.

He’s holding me in place, in a firm grip that has me at his delicious mercy. He tugs my head to the left, stretching my neck and sweeping more dizzying kisses along my flesh. I murmur, shuddering with each druggy kiss he bestows.

It’s safe to say when he told me he wanted to fuck me, I didn’t think he’d start like this. With this slow, languid, exploration that has me feeling all loose and warm. “ Fucking gorgeous, Maeve,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

He said that before—that he’s wanted me for so long. Since the auction, he must mean. Since I kissed him that night.

“What have you wanted?” I ask, needing to know what he’s pictured since then. If it’s been some of the same things I’ve imagined.

“I want to watch you melt. I want to hear you moan. Want to see you beg, crawl, fall apart.”

I gasp at the promise of all those things. “I’ll beg. I’ll crawl. I’ll come very hard,” I say, an easy promise since he’s made everything easy so far. His hands and mouth seem made for me.

I reach for him, lifting my hands to tug him a little closer. But he grabs my wrists, spreads my arms out wide, and curls his hands over mine, pinning them in place as he devastates my neck with the most luxurious, intoxicating kisses known to womankind.

I’m panting and gasping, caught up in a kiss trance. Both turned on and intrigued, I ask breathily, “What are you doing to me?”

Because I truly don’t know what his plan is.

He smiles down at me, a little wicked. “Why don’t you tell me? Or better yet,” he says, nipping at my jawline before he tips his forehead down to my lap, “show me.”

It takes me a few seconds to catch up to his meaning. When I do, my pulse beats wildly between my thighs.

Show me.

Like when he said spit on it .

I reach down, gather the soft cotton of the hem of my skirt, and pull it up above my knees, stopping at my thighs, then teasing him with, “Like this? ”

It’s asked ever so innocently.

His breath hisses out, harsh and ragged. His mouth comes down on my shoulder, biting it. I jump, but it’s not a harsh bite. It’s a passionate one, like he’s putting all his lust into it, leaving teeth marks on my skin.

“Yes, like that. Like a good wife would do,” he says.

A burst of heat flares inside me, chased by a warm, safe sensation. That’s how I feel when he calls me wife —like he’d take care of me.

Like he’s both my safe harbor and the man who wants me, all in one.

Sitting on the couch with him behind me, directing the scene, I tug the skirt up, up, up my thighs, then to my waist, revealing my panties to him.

“Fuck.” The vibration from the growl lands in my ear. I can tell he’s staring down at my white cotton panties.

“But you can’t see exactly what you’ve done yet.”

A soft laugh falls from his lips. He cups my jaw, turns my face to him. “What a good point. Be a good wife then and let me taste you for the first time.”

I shiver, expecting him to come around and drop down between my knees. But instead he nods, urging me on. “Come on, your husband is hungry. Slide your finger inside.”

I shudder but obey, gathering up my own arousal, then lifting my hand to him. With his face next to mine, he sucks on my finger, and I swear I go up in flames from the sounds he makes. It’s like he’s eating the most extravagant meal. Then he grabs my face and crashes his mouth down on mine. His tongue strokes inside. His teeth nip on my lips. He’s voracious. When he breaks the kiss, I feel dazed, drunk on him already.

In a flash, he’s around the couch, down on his knees, peeling off my panties. He looks up at me. “Now, I can kiss you in a whole new way.”