by C L Rowell
His lips brushed across mine. Once. Twice. Three times. He pulled back, just out of reach, “Our food’s getting cold.”
I groaned, bouncing on my toes and clinging to his shoulders as frustration filled me. “I know.” Reluctance underscored my voice, “Do you want to stop?”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“No?” His lips curved into a secretive smile and I realized he was messing with me.
“No. Food can wait. I can’t.” My patience at an end, I climbed his muscular form like I was Jane climbing Tarzan. I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist as I molded my lips and body to his. Holding my breath, I waited to see how he’d react, but I worried for nothing. His hands cradled my naked bottom through the shirt—my only covering—and, just like that, the picnic was put on indefinite hold.
Hours later, tired but indescribably satisfied, we lounged on the blanket, nibbling cold pizza and sipping warm champagne.
“Should we check on them?” He arched a lazy eyebrow as he fed me a bite of pie.
“Who?”
He grinned. “Zander and Sylvie.”
I shook my head, embarrassed to realize I’d forgotten all about them in the hours since we’d left them on their own. “Eh, we can do it tomorrow. No one has screamed or come pounding on our door, so I’m taking that as a good sign. Besides, you wore me out.”
He smirked, “Who wore who out?”
“You heard me.”
“Bed?”
I shoved half a slice of pie into his mouth, smearing it across his face as I scrambled to my feet. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re ready for round three. Didn’t you hear me say you wore me out?”
“But, baby—”
“Sleep.”
“But—”
I stomped my foot against the floor, “Sleep.”
“Fine.” He got to his feet without another word of protest. He carried me to bed and tucked me in, then climbed in and wrapped himself around me. “Night, angel.”
“Night.”
A girl could get used to this. I drifted off with a satisfied smile curving my lips, wondering what morning would bring.
The End
Be sure to watch for book 3, Allister, coming soon