âDo you know anything about personal space?â Breathlessly, the words fall from my lips.
âYes,â he murmurs, stepping into me. âI know that I fuckinâ love it when youâre in mine.â
âI mean other peopleâs.â
He slides his hand from my chin to the back of my head, twining his fingers into the hair at the base of my skull, and rests his other hand on my waist. âI respect personal space,â he whispers, every breath fluttering over my lips, making them red hot. âBut yours looks empty, darlinâ. It needs filling.â
âAnd youâre the perfect guy for the job, right?â
His lips crushing against mine answer my question. Tate pushes us back and I gasp as my back hits the wall. I grasp his shirt as if itâll ground me, but Iâm consumed by his tongue flicking against mine. He asks no permission. Heâs not gentle. Heâs rough and demanding.
His lips are harsh and desperate, his fingertips digging into me in a way that stings so bad itâs almost sweet, and his hard body against mine almost suffocates me, but thatâs because I can feel all of him, from his tensed pecs to his hardened cock.
Heâs against me, fully, entirely, every dip and bump of his body evident despite the clothing between us. And as his teeth graze across my bottom lip in a tantalizingly teasing way that makes me moan quietly into his mouth, I want that clothing gone.
I dip my hands beneath his shirt and trail them up his back. His grip gets tighter, his kiss gets firmer. His movements are almost possessive, but not in a bad way. Theyâre not selfish or careless. Every twitch of his fingers brings me pleasure. Every swipe of his tongue turns me on, too.
And I am. Turned on. I am turned. The. Hell. On. My breasts are aching, my nipples pebbling, and my clit is aching in a way I thought it forgot long ago. But it hasnât, it remembers, and my muscles remember, and my pussy is clenching, my fingers are gripping, my lips are moving. His hands are caressing, his tongue is battling, his erection is growing.
Thereâs usâno doubts, no what ifs, no maybes. Thereâs the kiss and the need and the want. Thereâs the actions and the gasps and the tiny moans and the desperation. Thereâs Tate and Ella, the two that donât make sense, the two that shouldnât do this, but do anyway, on both accounts.
She likes to be busy - unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.