“Kat, open up for me,” he panted. “I need to taste you. We’ll go slow, I promise, just please let me in.”
It wasn’t his plea that had her parting her lips, but her own needs and desires mixed with intense curiosity as to what it might feel like to lose herself in a kiss. To lose herself in his kiss. Remembering he wanted her to be clear, she gave him a quiet “yes” and parted her lips.
He groaned his approval and held her face as his tongue tentatively explored in shallow strokes, giving her time to acclimate to the intrusion. But time wasn’t necessary. Kat was fast learning that this man was like a potent drug: highly addictive and should come with a warning label. She wanted more. Needed more.
Digging her fingers into his back, she succumbed to her instincts. Despite her pulse and the intensity of the sensations climbing in her belly, he kept the pace slow and methodical. Their tongues met and glided over each other again and again in an erotic dance. He tasted like heaven with a splash of cranberry juice, giving her a new affinity for the tart flavor. If Ocean Spray could find a way to bottle it, she’d buy stock in the Cran-Irish line.
When he pulled back, she had to force herself not to follow him, but the ache she felt at the loss of connection with him shocked her with a dose of reality. She’d just experienced her first true kiss, and it had rocked her to her core. If Irish could affect her so well with a kiss, what could he do to her if she gave him her body? A slight tremor ran through her at the thought.
“Wow,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “That was…”
“Really good.” Kat mentally slapped herself in the forehead for such a lame description. English was her best subject, so surely she could have spit out something a bit more profound than that.
Irish smiled widely, his white teeth bright in the moonlight. “Yeah, it was.” He rolled over and got out of the bed. She settled back against the pillow as he leaned over, bracing himself with his arms on either side of her. Then he kissed her again, almost as though testing to see if she’d let him. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the melding of their mouths as they barely interlocked, she embracing his full lower lip while he embraced the opposite. A gentle passion and mutual respect conveyed in one small act.
“Sweet dreams, kitten,” he whispered against her forehead before placing a chaste kiss there.
And with a lump in her throat and a knot in her belly, Kat watched him slip from the room, even as he made a place for himself deep in a corner of her heart.
Chapter Ten
Aiden walked across the gravel drive toward the house. It was only midmorning and already the oppressive humidity was replacing the sweat dripping down his chest just as fast as he wiped it away with the T-shirt balled in his hand.
“Hey, Ally-girl,” he said to the gator sunning herself. “Must be nice to be cold-blooded, huh? Not even noon and it’s already wicked muggy out here.” She hissed in response, which he took to mean, Like I give a shit, asshole. “All right, I’m going. Don’t need to bite my head off.”
If anyone should be cranky, it was him. After a night of practically no sleep, he’d gotten up around five in the morning and gone for a long run. Then he’d punished himself for another couple of hours in their makeshift gym, flipping tractor tires, swinging a sledgehammer, and doing other manual labor–based exercises. Rich boys could play with their weight machines all day long, but nothing beat the kind of muscle built with good old-fashioned hard work.
But now he wanted to die. Hell, he’d already puked twice. Transitioning from maintenance workouts to training and fight prep always sucked. He’d rest for a few hours and go back out for another round in the afternoon and maybe another in the evening. If he wanted a shot at winning this tournament, he didn’t have time to dick around.
Which also meant changing his diet, he realized as he climbed the porch steps and the rich scent of pancakes made his stomach growl. He figured Xander must be cooking breakfast—the man had culinary talents to rival an Iron Chef—but the scene he walked in on took him by surprise.
Standing at the counter mixing a bowl of eggs, Xander was animatedly telling an elaborate story as Kat tried to flip pancakes while doubling over in laughter.
Aiden dropped his sweaty shirt by the door and crossed to the fridge. He grabbed two bottles of water and killed the first one before even reaching the kitchen table.
“Oi,” his roommate called. “Get your stinky shite out of the room, will you? How many times do I have to tell you not to leave your sweaty clothes lying about the house?”
“The same amount of times I have to tell you you’re not my mother.”