“I know.”
Tension makes her thighs clench. I’m between them, so they tighten against my ribs. I keep my hands where they are, thumbs rubbing circles close to her femoral artery. Her skin is flushed, warm; her pulse is racing. She’s exactly how I want her to be, turned on and distracted. Backing off, I rest my hands on her knees and bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling when she frowns.
“I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore, ’kay, Sunny Sunshine? I’m trying my best. I know it’s probably not good enough, but maybe you can tell me what I need to do so I can get better at it.” I’m not feeding her a line, even though I’m notoriously good at those.
Sunny’s knees press hard against my sides for a long moment. Her fingers flutter close to her hair, likes she’s thinking about doing that twirl thing. I can tell she’s trying to keep her hands to herself, that she wants to stay angry a little longer, but can’t. I’m not sure what it is about me that makes her fold—’cause let’s face it, I’m not prime boyfriend material—but whatever she sees, I’ll take.
She reaches up and pushes her fingers through my hair. Her nails scratch my scalp. I love it when she does that. Then her fingers tighten and release, over and over. I love it when she does that, too. If I had a tail, it’d be thumping on the ground about now.
“Stop letting the hooker bunnies take pictures.”
“They’re fans.”
“They’re sluts.”
“They’re also fans.”
“Who have their hands all over you.”
Her fingers tighten again so I smooth my hands up her legs and squeeze when I get to the hem of her shorts. I’m diverting her attention again. It’s not fair. She makes a good point. I wouldn’t like it if it was the other way around. I don’t always have control of where other people put their hands. I can only control what I do with mine.
“You’re the only one who matters, though.”
Sunny’s uncertainty is obvious in the tightness of her jaw and the flexing of her fingers in my hair. Some people avoid confrontation. I don’t. This whole situation is the perfect catalyst for a sweet make-up session. Keeping her on the edge of anger and fusing it with desire is the best way to finally get what I’ve been waiting for all these weeks.
Her anger simmers like almost-boiling water. Sunny cups the back of my neck and yanks me forward, our lips connecting. It’s amazing after two long weeks of nothing.
Kissing is an art. It’s the most important part of foreplay. Everything I’ll do to the rest of her body with my fingers and—sweet Christ, please let this be the night—my dick is simulated with kissing.
She tries to be aggressive, to push her tongue past my lips, but I nip her with my teeth. She makes this pained sound, frustrated and needy at the same time.
As soon as her lips part I slip my tongue inside, stroking slowly. She tastes like the cinnamon and clove toothpaste she uses. It reminds me of gingerbread cookies. Interesting. That means she stopped to brush her teeth before she answered the door. Even as pissed as she was, and maybe still is, she prepared for this.
I run a hand up her arm and across her shoulder until I’m cupping her cheek in my palm. Then I suck on her tongue. It drives her fucking crazy when I do that.
Sunny groans and winds herself around me, hooking her feet at my waist, fingers twisting in my hair to keep me from backing off again. That’s not part of my immediate plan. I’ve had far too few make-out sessions with Sunny to stop right after we’ve started.