Tattoo (Take It Off #7)(30)
Author: Cambria Hebert

Just as our lips matched up, he lifted his chin ever so slightly, tilting his head up so the tips of our noses brushed together. Leaning just a little to the side, his bottom lip brushed over my top one, dragging upward, and our noses brushed together again. My limbs started shaking because just one brief touch wasn’t enough. Watching him still, I tilted up my own head, the back of my head sliding against the wall as I lifted, realigning our mouths and inviting him to take advantage.

Brody opened his eyes, spearing me with the molten chocolate of his irises. The heat I saw in his gaze was undeniable. The desire he exuded could only be real. His hand flattened out on the wall right beside my head and he shifted his stance, sliding one of his thighs between my legs.

And then he lifted.

That powerful thigh I was admiring in his jeans just moments ago slid upward, bringing me with it. My feet hovered over the floor as I straddled his thigh, the firmness of his muscle pressing right against my core. The sweet spot inside my panties began to throb heavily with the seductive pressure of my position against the wall.

And he kissed me.

Brody diminished the scant distance between us and sealed our lips together. I reacted eagerly, taking everything he would give me and letting it fill up my insides. His tongue swept inside my mouth and I groaned. I loved the width of his tongue. I loved the way it stroked like it intended to possess everything it touched.

I couldn’t help but rock against his thigh, and when I moved, so did he, bringing it up a little bit more. A sensation of pleasure shot through me, and my inner muscles contracted, squeezing together, trying to milk every last bit of excitement from that movement. As soon as it faded, I rocked again, groaning into his mouth while my fingers found the waistband of his jeans and tried to yank him closer.

My body was demanding. It wanted more. It wanted to be brought to the very top of a mountain and then shoved off, plummeting me into the deep abyss of pleasure.

Brody broke the kiss and drew in a ragged breath. I could feel the way his abs contracted with every quick breath he took. I was wearing an oversized chambray shirt over a pair of leggings and I hadn’t bothered to button it all the way to the top. Brody slid his palm into the opening at my neck and pulled away the fabric, exposing my collarbone and shoulder, scooping down and scraping his teeth across my flesh.

I tingled as the sharp edges scraped over my flesh and shuddered when he went back over the same spot with that wicked tongue of his. I tried to lean forward, to kiss any part of him I could reach, but he pinned me back, shaking his head, and dove into the side of my neck like he was some kind of starved vampire.

But he didn’t bite me. He sucked at the flesh, drawing it into his mouth, and the tugging sensation made my thighs tighten around his leg.

My hand ripped away from the waistband of his jeans and I thrust it up beneath the hem of his shirt, drawing my nails across his washboard abs, traveling up so I could cup his pec in my palm. The second I brushed over his nipple, it tightened into a rock-hard pebble, and I grasped it between two fingers and pinched.

A hoarse sound ripped from his throat and he stopped kissing me, his head buried in my neck. I actually felt slight trembling throughout his limbs, and knowing he was just as turned on by me as I was him was a heady aphrodisiac.

Feeling a little bolder, I pinched his nipple again, twisting it slightly, and he shuddered. I rotated my hips over his thigh and made a little purring sound.

“Damn, Taylor,” he groaned, pulling back to look down at me. “You make it really hard to stop.”

I didn’t ask him to stop. In fact, I wanted him to continue.

Brody slowly lowered his leg until my feet touched the floor. When he stepped back, I had to give more of my weight to the wall because without the support, I would have collapsed in a quivering puddle.

“Every time I kiss you,” he rasped, brushing a finger across my cheek, “your skin turns a shade of pink.”

“Curse of a redhead.” I smiled.

“It’s not a curse. It’s damn cute.”

I wrinkled my nose. I didn’t want to be cute, not to him. I wanted to be sexy. I wanted to make him flustered with need. It was only fair because that’s the effect he had on me.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, changing the subject. I didn’t care to talk about my cuteness. And trying to make him leave again was useless. I wasn’t completely positive that he really did just want to spend time with me, but I didn’t want him to go.

“I’m always hungry.”

“Come along, then,” I called, trailing through the house and into the kitchen where the scent of cinnamon and vanilla drifted through the air.

I glanced at the untouched French toast bake on the counter and felt my stomach rumble since the first time I left the hospital. After pulling out a tub of butter from the fridge, I opened the cupboard to reach inside to grab a couple plates.

The muscles in my body protested when I stretched up to reach and a renewed sense of weariness washed over me. I didn’t like feeling this way so I tried to ignore my feelings.

Brody came up behind me, invading my personal space, sandwiching me between the counter and his chest. I resisted the urge to sink back into him, the comfort of his body so enticing.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, brushing away my arm and reaching onto the top shelf with ease. “You shouldn’t be moving around so much.”

“I figured eating off plates would be better than our hands,” I quipped. I mean really, like putting food on a plate was that taxing.

When he lowered his arm (plates in hand), he brushed against the side of my body and leaned in close to whisper in my ear. “I like a woman with a little bit of attitude.”

I snatched the plates from his hand and spun, only he stayed where he was. My breasts brushed against his chest, and beneath my clothing, my nipples tightened. “It’s getting cold,” I said. The proximity of his body was like someone handing you a hot fudge sundae just dripping with sweetness and telling you not to eat it.

He smirked and stepped aside, letting me by. I shoved away from the counter and went to the granite-topped island where the French toast was cooling.

“You really shouldn’t be in here cooking,” he admonished again. I heard the concern in his voice so I decided to ignore his potent bossiness because it was clear he really did care about my wellbeing.

“I didn’t make this,” I told him, setting out the plates and picking up a knife to cut into the thick bread-and-egg mixture. “My Dad has a housekeeper that also does some cooking. She was here this morning, but I sent her home.”