The brush of bare skin against a pillowcase.
The rhythmic intake of breath in the dark.
Trying to get more comfortable, I roll over onto my back. My eyes spring open when, beneath the sheet, my hand brushes up against something.
A hand.
Hishand.
I tell myself to pull away, to yank my arm out of the dangerous no-man’s land in the center of the mattress where it’s wandered. But before I can… Conor’s fingers twine around mine.
Apparently he’s not asleep.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. Can’t do anything at all as our grips lace together, unstoppable as two opposing magnets drawn in by an undetectable charge.
Time seems to freeze.
The air goes still in my lungs.
It’s so silent, I can hear the thudding of my own pulse, crashing like thunder between my ears as he holds my hand. And I know it’s crazy, feeling like this at the inconsequential tangling of two sets of fingers. I know I shouldn’t be affected so acutely. But the longer my palm is pressed against his, the wilder the feelings inside my chest become.
They storm within me, churning and howling in an inescapable vortex, sweeping away every reason in my head telling me this is a terrible idea, obliterating every hesitation in my heart warning me to guard myself against him at any cost…
It’s a thousand mile trip from one side of this mattress to another — a terrifying journey into unknown territory. But the winds within me spin faster still, removing all my resistance, wiping out my worries, scouring the sky of everything except the feeling of his hand in mine. Leaving nothing behind in the wreckage besides…
Desire.
Need.
Longing.
I push off the mattress and launch myself at Conor. We collide with a thud, a breath-stealing impact. My thighs straddle his hips, my hands plant against his shoulders, and I lean down so we’re flush together — chest to chest, eye to eye.
For a half-instant, I register surprise in his eyes before my mouth crashes against his. Any sense of shock is overridden by lust in a heartbeat. His arms come around me, locking me against his body in a cage of muscle. Not that I need a cage to hold me. I can’t imagine ever wanting to escape the fire of his touch, the feeling of his hands on my back, twisting in the thin fabric of my nightie.
As I kiss him, that storm inside me pours outward in a great tempest. With every brush of my lips, every press of my fingers into his skin, I feel myself spiraling faster, further out of control.
He responds to my urgency in equal measure, growling low in his throat when my mouth drops to his neck, his chest, anywhere my lips can reach. His hand shoots out like lightning and tears the band from the base of my braid. The chocolate waves tumble loose, coming undone in an instant thanks to the quick work of his fingers.
Leaning forward, I let my hair spill across his chest in a curtain as I bring our mouths back together and suck lightly on his bottom lip. He nearly bucks up off the bed at the sensation.
“Christ, Shelby.”
I laugh lightly, enjoying myself, but the sound quickly turns to a gasp as Conor’s hands land on my thighs. Without hesitation, he takes the thin fabric of my nightie between his strong fingers and tears the lacey slit wide open, baring me from hem to neckline in one clean rip. The black fabric falls away in tatters.
“Conor!” I blurt, stunned he’s managed to strip me naked in approximately three seconds. “That was my only nightgown!”
I see a flash of teeth — a grin of dark, delicious intent. “Don’t worry. You won’t be needing your clothes anymore.”
My retort never makes it past my lips, because suddenly he takes control, flipping me over onto my back with a sudden thrust of his hips. I gasp as he comes down on top of me, pressing me into the mattress with bone-melting weight. I feel his length, hard against my core through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and want nothing more than to remove that last barrier keeping us apart.
No more space.
No more excuses.
He touches me everywhere, memorizing every inch of my skin, working his way slowly down my body with his hands and lips. After the not-so-delicate treatment of my nightie, I fear my underwear is about to suffer a similar fate. I’m even more stunned when, instead, he proceeds to use his teeth to drag the lace bottoms — inch by torturous inch — down my thighs, over my knees, past my shins, all the way to my toes.
It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced, by a mile.