Exposed. Julie Leto
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her neck until his thumb teased the lobes of her ears.
“You didn’t like it?” she murmured. She couldn’t imagine how he wouldn’t have. She was having a damn hard time keeping her eyes open and her moan of pleasure contained in her throat.
“I loved it, but that’s not what tonight is going to be about.”
“Huh?”
If a more intelligent response existed, Ariana couldn’t summon it. Not with his scent, hot and male and potent, assailing her nostrils and his body heat defeating the night’s chill like fire against ice.
“My brain has defogged. My balance is back. And if I remember correctly, I promised that if you stayed, tonight would be about you. Me pleasing you. Not necessarily the other way around.”
She barely had time to register that he had just voiced her ultimate fantasy, when he lowered his head and brushed her lips with a teasing sweep. The sensation unleashed that imprisoned whimper, then several more as the kiss deepened, mouths opened, tongues danced. Before she realized it, Max untucked her shirt from her jeans and skimmed her belly with a light, exploratory touch.
Electric need surged through her. She jumped, startled and thrilled and excited, then grabbed his cheeks and pressed closer to force herself past her panic. Max wouldn’t hurt her. Max would stop if she asked.
And she definitely didn’t want to stop.
His lips stretched tight as he grinned beneath the kiss. He unbuttoned her jeans and released the zipper, barely touching her in the process, which only stoked her hunger for more. She broke the kiss long enough to whip off her turtleneck, tossing it aside to disappear in the soupy mist swirling around them, then kissed him again. He led her backward until her calves bumped against an outdoor chaise lounge.
Pressing his hands on her shoulders, he guided her into the chair, following her down so that he knelt beside her. With intimate slowness, he eased her fully against the cushion, altering his kisses from bold and insistent to soft and scattered, touching her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin, lulling her into an anticipatory state where she held her breath and waited for his next touch.
When she finally opened her eyes, his grin was pure sin.
“Do you feel it?” he asked, his green eyes twinkling with some untold secret.
“Feel what? You stopped.”
“Oh, honey—” he smiled as he removed her jeans, the denim rasping over the sensitive skin of her legs, leaving her wispy panties askew “—I’ve only just started. I meant the anticipation. Do you feel that?”
She nodded, rubbing her tongue-dampened lips together tightly. The fog kissed her bare legs. The chill made her shiver, but the sensation was nothing compared to the waves of want rocking her from the inside out.
“It’ll only get better, I promise.”
He tugged the denim off her ankles, then straddled the chair so he could attend to her bare feet. He massaged her arches and toes with a strong pressure that at first made her wince, then he kneaded softly until she sighed. She hadn’t realized how tired her feet were. But with each press and swirl, his hands erased the ache of the workday and enhanced the bittersweet torment of unsatisfied need.
He inched upward, lifting her left leg and placing an anklet of wet-tongued kisses on her skin, followed by a seam of laving up her calf and behind her knee. She started to slip down the fog-slickened cushion. The plunging sensation made her grab the arms of the chair.
“Relax, Ariana. I won’t hurt you.”
“It’s not that. I feel like I’m falling.”
“You are. You’re falling for me.”
She shook her head, smiling at his sweet sentiment, but not surprised that he didn’t understand.
“I’m afraid of heights,” she admitted.
“Heights of passion?” His teasing tone and sparkling eyes drew her into his double entendre. He scooted forward another few inches, then draped her knee over his shoulder. She held her breath, watching, fascinated and vulnerable and thrilled, as he smoothed his hand from beneath her lifted thigh, down to her nearly bare bottom. Wordlessly, he grabbed an elongated cushion from a nearby chair and placed it behind her hips, securing her in the semi-lifted position. She grabbed the neck roll and slid it behind her head, assisting him as he arranged her body for his full view and complete attention.
“I wouldn’t know about the heights of passion, Max,” she admitted. She’d avoided them the same way she’d avoided climbing Coit Tower or walking the span of the Golden Gate. The possibility of plunging down, losing herself, was a real one she’d always meant to avoid. “Never really climbed them.”
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