32. Kyle #2
Her breath caught. Then she dropped the cloth on the floorboards and leaned in, her eyes closing as she placed a kiss to his collarbone—to the long, thin scar there. The reminder of how close he’d come not to being here.
Her lips brushed the skin, a whisper of contact that landed like a strike of heat.
Kyle’s breath stuttered. His hand slipped onto her waist to hold her there, right on the edge of something he’d been pretending he didn’t want. “Sloan.” His voice was rough now, aching with the need for her that he’d done his best to hide these last few weeks.
Her warmth vibrated through the thin space between them as she lifted her head, her lips catching the soft skin of his throat, the scruff of his jaw.
“Sloan,” he said again, warning and desire tangled together.
Her hand slid to the back of his neck, her other hand braced against his chest, as she searched his eyes. “Tell me to stop.” Her voice almost a plea.
They couldn’t come back from this. But if she hoped he had more strength than she did right now, she was wrong.
Because all I want to do is fuck Sloan Carrington.
His hand held her chin, angling her head up as his mouth found hers. Her lips were warm, soft, tasting faintly of sugar. God, he’d forgotten how soft her sweet mouth was. How good she tasted. Not a hot, passionate kiss yet. Not yet.
If this was happening, he was going to take his damned time.
A quiet, unsteady sound vibrated against his mouth—the beginning of her moan, just a whimper—and a low and dangerous heat rolled through him like an inferno.
His hand slid from her waist to splay across the small of her back, pushing her taut against the hardness of his cock, his desire for her clear.
“This what you want?”
“Mmm.” Her mouth closed on her lower lip, teeth finding the plump, soft center and nipping slightly. “You’ve been torturing me every night, you know.”
“Oh, have I?” He skimmed her lips with his, hand stroking down her jawline, then to her shoulder, where he pushed the strap of her dress down.
His lips traced her skin the way she’d done with her kisses on his collarbone, drawing out each electric spark and shudder as he dragged his mouth down her throat.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice breathy and unsteady. She wobbled against him, her hand on his chest, still stroking like she was painting a mural on him now, less by sight and more by instinct. “You think I don’t feel you, but I do.”
“Sweetheart, I know you feel me.” He pushed the other strap down, his lips on her collarbone now. “We should take this off.” He tugged at her dress. “Wouldn’t want to ruin it with paint. Besides, I can’t be the only half-naked painted canvas here.”
She bit down on her lip, pulling back just enough to push the dress from her torso, over her breasts.
Fuck me.
She wasn’t wearing a bra.
His breath caught, gaze focusing on the curves of soft skin, the way her pink nipples hardened in the cool air.
“Fuck, Sloan. You’re killing me,” he growled.
She smiled, pushing the dress off her hips and letting it pool at her feet. Then she stepped out of it and closer to him, draping her arms around his neck. “You were saying?”
He went perfectly still, his heart pounding so hard that he heard the rush of blood in his ears. “I don’t want you to regret anything.”
A slow smile spread on her face, and she brought her face closer to his. “I want your hands on me, Kyle,” she whispered in his ear, biting his earlobe softly.
As his hands cupped her perfect tits, his cock bulged so hard he sucked in a breath. “Oh God, yes,” she murmured. “I’ve been dreaming about this in the shower, when I spread my legs, soaking wet, pretending my vibrator is your hard cock.”
“God damn, woman. When did you get that mouth on you?”
She dragged her lips across his cheek, her mouth hovering over his, open, touching with featherlight pressure against his own open mouth. “Oh, there are so many sides to the new Sloan I’m dying to show you.”
That was enough to smash any restraint that had been hanging by a spiderweb. His mouth crashed onto hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a permission that didn’t need to be spoken, as he held her against him.
She responded with her own tongue, hot and sweet, tangled against his. Paint smeared between them as her breasts pressed into his chest, the silkiness of her nipples rubbing against his skin.
He rose from the stool with her firmly in his arms, his mouth moving against hers with purpose, heat building fast now. “God,” he whispered, because he couldn’t remember anything that had ever felt this good, this right, this fucking incredible before.
She leaned into him, opening to him, her hands sliding up his chest like she’d forgotten there was any other place to put them.
The contact lit him up, and every nerve was suddenly too aware, too awake.
He felt the mural at his back, the cool air, the heat of her and then turned her so that her back was to the wall.
His hand tightened at her hip, and he walked her backward without breaking the kiss.
The back of her shoulders brushed the wall, and she gasped, just before he pressed her the rest of the way into the paint.
Cool and slick paint met her warm skin and she sucked in a sharp breath, fingers digging into his shoulder, her body arched into his as she groaned with pleasure.
“Sorry about your mural,” he murmured against her mouth, an apology he didn’t actually mean.
“I’ll fix it,” she said, breathless.
“You said you didn’t want me to be the only half-naked canvas.
” He braced one hand against the wall beside her, trapping her there without hurting her, without crushing her as his knee pushed between her legs, spreading them open as he ground against her.
His other hand skimmed the elastic of her panties, thumb pressing in like he needed the contact to ground himself.
“Kyle,” she groaned into his mouth, a beg in her tone.
“Not yet, sweetheart.”
The kiss turned hungrier, still controlled, but barely.
Weeks of almost , months of buried thoughts, burned down to heat and pressure, and the way she met him like she’d been waiting to stop holding back.
Her tongue tangled with his in a breathless rhythm, her arms tight around his neck, her body arching against him like her need for him was spiraling.
He hooked his thumb under the elastic of the thin fabric covering her ass, then slid his hand under it, smoothing his palm until his fingers collided with the wetness and heat between her legs.
“Fuck,” she exhaled into his mouth, and he drew back, only far enough to look at her, her dilated pupils, and a mural of blue, red, and green paint on her breasts. A streak of purple that had somehow found her cheek. Her lips were swollen, her eyes dark, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
He was pretty sure he looked just as wrecked.
Kyle rested his forehead briefly against hers, breathing hard. “We might regret this.”
She smiled—slow, unrepentant, still breathless. “Maybe.”
His mouth curved in a wicked smile. “But not tonight.”
Then he knelt.