he echoes out his own at the sound, as one of her hands moves into his hair and the other against his hip. Both hands guide him—mouth toward collarbone, hips pressing closer—and she arches toward him, driven by longing.
“Please,” she begs, losing herself in the feel of his mouth on her skin. “I need you.”
“You have me,” he sighs against her throat and pulls her as close as he can.
Greed settles into Austin’s bones and he tries to stop it, but her hands are soft and they keep pressing into his skin, and he’s a fool for her. They stumble up the stairs and through the hall to his bedroom with clumsy feet, with hands all over, and all he can think of is more . When Harper stands before him beside his bed, her eyes cast down at the wooden floor, and removes her T-shirt, she gives him precisely the more that he craves. But she wants more, too. She fits herself to him as soon as she can, moving them onto the bed, and he turns her, pulls her back against him as he leans against the headboard. When she aligns herself with him and his mouth finds her neck once more, it feels as though their skin has always been meant to intersect like this, touch and press.
They connect at places and points, all of which feel vibrant, wholly alive. Her back, bare aside from the thin material and eyehooks of her bra, rests against the muscled planes of his chest, but not fully, the space between her shoulder blades untouched. Her legs, too, are neglected, jean-clad and fitted as a lowercase V against the larger flannel patterned V of his own spread legs—he can feel their warmth, but not the skin. He can’t touch or hold all of her, but his arms fit kindly around her middle, hands splayed over her naked abdomen. He rests his chin in the groove that her collarbone makes and wondrously stares down at the sight of his hands on her. Harper stares down too, at the way his tanned hands and forearms cover nearly all of her middle, and she tries not to breathe too deeply as she watches his hands rise and fall with her every breath. She fears, however irrationally, that a breath too deep will push him too far away. He holds her tightly for the same reasons, and pulls her closer to let his mouth linger on her neck.
“Austin,” she whispers, a hand reaching up to palm his cheek. One small turn and they’re breathing each other’s air. She guides him closer with the gentle pressure of her hand as it slips down along his jawline, fits her mouth deliberately to his, and slides her tongue along his lower lip as if asking for approval.
“Your neck is one thing—” Austin sighs, denying himself as he denies her, and moves his mouth away. He reveals the pale skin of her neck as he draws the curtain of her hair aside and presses his mouth to it again. Savoring the sweet scent and salty flavor of her, he languishes at the moan that sounds in her throat, at the way her fingertips flex against his cheek. “If you give me your mouth, I won’t be able to stop this time,” he warns quietly, promises. “I won’t.”
Harper twists, turns, pushes, and settles atop him, her flat stomach pressing down against his toned one as his hands fist into the twisted sheets beneath them. She settles onto one arm, most of her weight deliberately balanced against his hips, and uses her other hand to lace her fingers together with his in the sheets. As she grips his hand beneath hers, she anchors him down, despite her small frame, and purposefully shifts her weight again—forward, this time. She hovers above him, her hair falling around them as she leans down to brush his lips softly with her own. It’s the most polite kiss, sweet and kind, but then it’s anything but, and Austin makes good on his word. His lips are relentless, hard and soft, fast and slow, and Harper accommodates him and his needs, her mouth mimicking every motion, because she needs the same things. The hand that isn’t beneath hers is drawn to her skin, and he grabs hold of any
Jolene Perry, Stephanie Campbell