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I stood there, hardly believing this was happening, as he bent down and pressed his lips to mine. His chin was rough with stubble but his mouth was hot, and before I realized what I was doing I’d opened my mouth. He sucked my bottom lip into his mouth and I pushed myself up on my toes, my hands fisted in the front of his shirt. One of his hands settled broad and solid on the soft curve of my hip and the other came up to cradle my head, his fingers curled behind my ear and into my hair. I was lost in it. I made some low sound, almost lost against his mouth, and he repeated it back to me like a growl.

I pulled back panting. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, for all that I needed to breathe. My lips felt swollen with his kisses. I could still feel the phantom rasp of his cheek on mine. My knees were weak. I was trembling a little, and there was a ball of incandescent sunlight lurking somewhere behind my ribs; I felt better than I ever had. I felt amazing. “What,” I managed, “what was that?”

“Whatever you want it to be.” Rob’s fingertips traced the line of my hip, and I was all too aware of the thin layer of fabric that separated his skin from mine.

All of a sudden I wanted his hands on every inch of me, followed by his mouth. The mental image was fleeting and powerful, gone as soon as it arrived, but it left me breathless. “You really think I’m beautiful?”

“What will it take to make you believe that?” He kissed his way down the angle of my jaw, feather-light little touches that made me gasp. “I could prove it to you.”

“Y, yeah,” I said, and in my head it sounded like a plea; in my mouth, it sounded like a dare. “Prove it.”

Fictie en literatuur
2 oktober
Charlotte Mistry

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