Crazy Ever After by Kelly Jamieson Page B

sparks that flew between them got out of control so easily, igniting into a goddamn wildfire. But he’d been worried about her, about the grief and fatigue that had shadowed her face. She still looked too thin, fragile, like she could snap, but yet, in his arms, she felt just right—delicate but strong, soft but resilient.
    A shadow fell in the light that spilled through the French doors from the den. He couldn’t tell who it was.
    He maneuvered Samara backward, still grasping her arms, deeper into the shadows up against the house. He pressed her body against the cool smooth stucco, pinning her there with his hips.
    She mumbled some sort of protest—of course—at his movements. “What—”
    “Someone was at the door,” he whispered, setting his forehead against hers. He felt her indrawn breath and her breasts pressed against him. Then he had to taste her, and he found her mouth with his. Her small mouth opened under his, and he groaned. He held her up against the wall, pressed his throbbing erection against her, and released her arms to take her face in his palms. He tilted her head so he could deepen the kiss.
    Her hands slid over his shoulders then into his hair. He couldn’t stop. She tasted so sweet, felt so right, smelled like heaven. His mouth devoured hers, and he swept his hands from her face down over her shoulders, skimmed over full breasts and narrow waist until he reached the flare of her hips to grip her sweet little ass. He lifted her against him, filling his hands with lush firm curves, sensation pouring through his veins like electricity sizzling along wires.
    Her honey-velvet tongue swept against his as she opened wider, and he hardened even more. He gasped into her mouth and shared her breath then leaned his forehead against hers as he panted. Then the silky fabric of her dress slipped under his fingers, and he urgently needed to feel her skin. His fingers dug at the dress, tugging it higher and higher until at last firm, warm flesh met his fingertips. He stroked the backs of her thighs, the hot crease where they met her buttocks, and she writhed and moaned and arched into him.
    He thrust a thigh between her legs, the dress now up around her waist, and she moved against him, riding his thigh, and he knew what she was seeking. Christ, he wanted it too, sweet release from this exquisite torturous longing. His skin buzzed as he kept his thigh against the damp heat between her legs.
    “Christ, Samara, you make me crazy.”
    She moaned again, and her head thunked back against the wall. He took the opportunity to bury his face in her neck and inhale the exotic vanilla and spice scent of her, the feminine scent of her arousal inflaming his senses. He kissed her soft skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses, licked her there to taste her, and sucked gently.
    She was still riding his leg, making little whimpers of need, her hands still tugging on his hair. “Oh god!” she cried softly, and her body went tight against his then twitched hard. Twitched again. Jesus, she was coming. He kept the pressure of his leg firm, caught her mouth again with his, and swallowed her cries of pleasure, almost losing it himself.
    “Oh, god,” she moaned, long moments later, burying her face against his neck. “Oh god, I can’t believe I did that.”
    He slid one hand from beneath her bottom and cradled her head, holding her against him as her body continued to quiver in twitchy little spasms. “Samara,” he whispered. “Christ, Samara.” He couldn’t believe it either.
    They stayed like that for long, throbbing, panting moments. He wanted to finish, wanted to take her upstairs and roll into her bed with her, wanted to do everything to her and make her come again every way he knew how. He was thick and hot inside his pants, so hard he hurt, and if he moved, if he even breathed, he was done.
    The chirruping noise of a cricket nearby registered faintly in his fuzzy brain. A light went out in a window above them, which he