Yours at Midnight by Robin Bielman

another dip, wiped pudding across his chin. She laughed.
    He flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him on the couch. She squirmed against him. When he lifted her arms above her head with one hand, licked his lips, and squeezed the pudding container so the creamy vanilla dessert spilled onto the V of skin left bared by her shirt, she stopped wiggling. Every cell in her body was turned on, and she wanted to slow down. She wanted to feel every little thing.
    “Oops,” he said. “I better help you with that.”
    Playful, teasing, sexy Quinn kissed her jaw first, then slid delicate touches down her neck. She rolled her head to the side to give him better access. Each graze of his lips sent shockwaves through her. His thigh moved between her legs, and she shamelessly rocked against him.
    His tongue burned a path to her chest. “This tastes much better off you than out of a plastic container.” He raised his head. “Or from a spoon.” Then he went back to licking up every bit of the pudding. When he finished, he moved up to her mouth.
    The sweet flavor of vanilla filled her senses as he slid his tongue between her lips and showed her again how his kisses rendered her completely his. He swept in and ravaged her mouth with strokes of his tongue that demanded and caressed at the same time.
    She arched up, tugged her arms down, and ran her hands up underneath his shirt. Muscle flexed under her fingertips. His skin, hot and smooth and hers for the taking, felt amazing. Better than the last time.
    The last time.
    “Quinn,” she said, hating to pull her mouth from his.
    “No talking.” He plunged right back in and she kissed him back, mindless the second one of his arms snaked around her back, his hand lifting the back hem of her shirt. His other hand skimmed down her side, found her ass, and brought her more firmly against him.
    Her body throbbed for him.
    But she couldn’t go any further until she told him about Max.
    If she didn’t come clean first, she’d feel like what they were about to do was a lie and didn’t mean anything—when it meant everything to her.
    She pushed herself up. “I need to tell you something.”
    “Tell me after,” he said, his tone husky, impatient. He pulled her onto his lap and cupped her breasts.
    “Now would be better,” she somehow managed to say, even as she arched against him and looked up at the ceiling. Her head lolled back; she couldn’t stop her sigh of pleasure. He had amazing hands.
    “Stop thinking so hard, Lyric.”
    When was the last time she’d done that? She couldn’t remember. At the moment, she couldn’t properly think at all. Quinn’s very skillful palms kneaded and massaged and—
    Oh God. His hands were magical too, because the front clasp of her bra opened before he lifted her shirt over her head and flicked his tongue across one nipple, then the other. Her bra slipped to the floor.
    Okay, maybe she could tell him after.
    Afterward he’d be less upset, right? She’d give him the best orgasm of his life, and he’d forgive her because of it.
    She didn’t really believe that, but this might truly be the last time she was with Quinn—and, selfishly, she didn’t want it to end. He wasn’t staying past the new year, and telling him the truth didn’t mean that would change. It didn’t mean that he’d suddenly drop everything to marry her and profess his undying love. She hoped he’d want to be a part of her life, to visit and keep in touch with Max.
    “You’re thinking again,” he murmured against her stomach, blazing a trail of kisses down to the top of her jeans. His hands, splayed across her lower back, kept her in place.
    “How do you know?” She ran her fingers through his hair.
    He lifted his head. His eyes, dilated to dark chocolate, skimmed over her. One cocky eyebrow lifted. “It’s a gift.”
    “Yeah, one that you’ve used to your cruel advantage over the years.”
    “I challenged you because I knew you could take it. Because you