Dream With Me (With Me Book 4) (3 page)

I want Griff.

I reach for his hand at my hip, and he stills behind me when my fingers touch his. I look down. My hand is so small compared to his; my olive skin darker than his light gold. He looks as if he’s been dipped in honey, and I’m tempted to find out if he tastes sweet or something much more sinful.

But I hold off. I’m realizing that I don’t want to rush this along. I want to savor it.

And I want to drive him wild.

I sweep my thumb from his wrist bone to the top of his thumb. His chest expands as he lets out a long, slow breath. I tug gently, because he’s brawny, and there’s no way he’s going to move unless he wants to.

He lets me lift his hand away from my hip, and I slide it to my flat stomach, resting it there. I step backward, pressing myself fully against him so that no space remains. And I feel him, that hot, heavy insistent part of him.

I let out a soft moan, because he’s so very big, and I picture him sliding into me, his fullness stretching me, filling me. I become wetter. Needier.

Griff doesn’t move his hand. His breaths are heavy, short; it’s almost as if he’s waiting to make sure I’m on the same page he is. Not only am I on the same page, but I’m right there on the same sentence. And since he’s not making the first move, I will.

I raise his hand higher, just below the curve of my breasts. A mild wind blows from our right, brushing against me like a lover’s caress. The wind circles, spinning my need in a tight circle; the air simmers with desire. My pulse thumps fast, pulling the want deep in me.

We’ve barely touched. We haven’t even kissed. It doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t have to.

I need more.

I place his hand over my left breast and let out another shaky, achy moan, my eyes half-closing in bliss. He feels so good, holding me like this. He still doesn’t move. Maybe he needs more encouragement? I arch into him, causing his other hand to slip into my hair.

He goes very, very still. A heartbeat. Then two. And on the third, he lets out a low, rumbling groan that causes me to go weak in the knees. His fingers slide further into my heavy strands, wrapping around the dark curls, and he lowers his head next to my ear.

I expect a word or two. Perhaps a hot whisper or a dark promise.

But he doesn’t speak.

His lips graze the shell of my ear, and this time it’s me who doesn’t move a muscle. I become even more aware of him—and of what he’s doing to me.

His teeth play with my earring, tugging on it—and that slight pull travels down my body to the growing need clawing at me. He lets go, and the earring swings like a pendulum against my skin. His lips move down and hover over the pulse point in my neck. My heart pounds fiercely in the silence, and I want to stretch up, make skin to skin contact with his mouth.

But I can’t.

His hand is in my hair; the other on my breast. He holds me in place.

I’m tethered to him.

And then his thumb grazes my nipple as he whispers a kiss on my neck. His lips are firm, hard, yet devastatingly tender.

I whimper. My breasts grow heavier, fuller; my nipples strain against the fabric. I’m not wearing a bra—I didn’t need to with this halter dress. There’s not many layers of clothing separating us, but it still feels like one too many. I want nothing between us.

His hand disentangles itself from my hair, and he moves it to the front of my body, over my hip, his fingers digging into the silky green fabric of my dress. The material rustles as he gathers it until my upper thigh shows. He touches me and lets go of the dress so it falls over him to cover us. Not that there’s anyone around. We’re all alone with no one to stop us.

Griff caresses a path upward, and a low sound of need escapes him when he feels the wetness coating me. There is no doubt how much I want him. And I wait, awareness drumming loud and insistent, because I know what he will soon discover. I’m not wearing any panties.

He lets out a surprised grunt and kisses the side of my neck. It’s not a whisper this time. It’s hard, firm. And he keeps on kissing me as his thumb rolls over my nipple. Harder. Firmer. He keeps on kissing me, keeps on flicking my nipple, as he strokes the top of my pussy, as his thick, blunt fingers spread me, moving up and down, up and down.

My vision blurs, and I shut my eyes, drowning everything out but the feel of him surrounding me. My breath scatters to the four corners of the Earth when he skims my clit. He notices that, pauses for a beat, and then does it again. A mere whisper of the hard, rough pad of his finger on that tight bundle of nerves shoots sparks in me. I’m an unlit fuse, waiting for the flame to hit. One sure stroke, and I’m positive I will come hard.

But he doesn’t give me that one sure stroke. He doesn’t place the burning match to my fuse to set the rocket flying into space. Oh no, that would be too simple, too easy. And when his touch slows to the barest of caresses, I know his plan is set on blowing the world we know to pieces.

I move into his touch, trying to ride him, to create more friction and get that release.

He stops.

‡

I let out a moan
of frustration. And I grab onto his wrist, the one attached to the fingers inside me. His wrist is huge, and I can barely wrap my grip around him. My thumb and pinky finger are splayed wide, and I inch my other fingers up to his knuckles. I press them, causing him to push against me.

Yes.

Almost . . .

There.

I slide a bit higher, grazing the middle of his fingers, and start to feel my wetness coating him, making his touch slick and sure. I move him against my clit, that hard, blunt, thick finger and my much slimmer one rolling over me. I rub us against me, circling tighter, harder, and faster, just the way I do it when I pleasure myself.

His other hand leaves my breast and goes to my hand, clasping over my delicate wrist. He gently taps against it, an unspoken signal for me to let go.

I pause for a moment, not so willing to let go—not so willing to trust that he won’t torture me some more and make me wait it out—but then he nips my earlobe, and my grip slackens enough that he’s able to lift my hand away.

He raises my arm up, and I bend it slightly, because I have an idea where this is heading. And if I’m right . . .

If I’m right, I don’t even know how I’ll react.

His teeth catch on the soft skin of my finger pads, striking a match to life. The flame flickers and pulses, the need drumming a loud, insistent beat. His mouth opens and his tongue swirls around my index finger, licking it clean. Tasting me. My eyes close, my pulse hammers away, and a moan escapes me.

He takes my middle finger into him, sucking it, running his tongue around my ring band, and he presses against my clit in a way that I’ve never felt before. It feels like the lit match is set to the path of gunpowder and sparks explode all the way down in me.

I don’t have the words for this kind of release. It’s not the usual build. My orgasm doesn’t wash over me, or let the tension subside. At first, it’s slow. That first crash of pleasure, his finger so hard on my clit that my vision blurs. I think I’m done. That this release was more than enough.

But then he runs his thumb over my swollen clit, a slow, hot burn. I go soft, pliant. Without Griff behind me, I’m sure I would have fallen to the ground. I feel weightless, like an astronaut in zero gravity, and yet I also feel grounded. I don’t know what to make of all these contradictions. There is no either-or. No black or white.

Just this.

The release demands everything from me. No holding back or second-guessing or what ifs. It makes my world go crystal clear, the colors bright and vivid, but there is no Oz or yellow brick road; only the gentle lapping of the lake hitting the dock, Griff sure and steady behind me, and me coming undone again and again. I don’t just have one orgasm.

I have
five
.

And he only has his fingers in me. I can’t imagine what it would be like with his—

He slowly removes himself from me, and I shudder at the loss. I turn in his arms and look up to meet his gaze.

His eyes are liquid brown, melted dark chocolate with flecks of caramel. His features are strained, the cords in his neck tensing. His jaw is hard, his rich brown hair slightly tousled from the breeze, and I have this urge to run my fingers through those strands and claim his mouth with my own.

A muscle leaps in his jaw, and I stop fighting my instincts. I run my hands through his thick hair, marveling at the slight wave. His arms encircle my waist, his hands resting on the small of my back. He presses me, urging me closer to him, and his eyes . . .

His eyes promise me so much as long as we kiss.

I want to do that—and more. I want to feel his hard mouth against mine, to see if it softens, to know how hot and silky his tongue is. To taste that heat, the dark promise in his gaze. I need to feel him. Touch him. Make him my own.

It seems criminal that we haven’t kissed yet—that we’ve wasted all these years when we could have been doing
this
. But we have right now.

And I’m not going to waste one more second.

I lean up on my toes, and he lowers his head to close the distance. Our mouths
almost
meet halfway. Not quite touching. Not yet.

A moment, then two. Enough that our eyes meet. We both expel a mingled, shaky breath, then move at the same time. My eyes close, my whole being dances with anticipation.

We finally kiss.

There are kisses, and then there are
kisses
.

Kisses
are the ones seen in epic love movies, like when Rhett kisses the hell out of Scarlett before he goes off to war or when Ryan Gosling kisses Rachel McAdams in the rain. That full stop, heart-pounding moment that changes
everything
. I’ve seen these kisses played out on the screen, read about them in romances, and while I’ve had some really good kisses . . .

Nothing compares to this.

Griff kisses me with infinite care. His mouth is tender. Gentle. There is no rush, no demand, no plundering, but he’s not timid or unsure, either.

There’s a confidence in the way he moves, a surety I didn’t expect. He’s so quiet and growly that I’ve always assumed he’d be the kind of guy who would not put much effort into kissing or anything but his own release. I was so wrong.

Because Griff is not just a
kisser
, he’s the Ultimate Kisser. He should have all the gold medals, championship belts, World Series rings, Oscars, and any other award that exists.

And we’re only
kissing
.

Just our mouths, slowly opening, learning each other. No tongues have entered the picture. The mere slide of his lips against mine gets me all hot and bothered all over again. Griff Sinclair is totally something else, like a unicorn.

I really, really need to taste him.

I press myself closer to him, my breasts rubbing against the hard wall of his chest. My nipples are hot, tight, points; my dress is this unwelcome, abrasive barrier.

He opens his mouth, his tongue darting out to touch my lower lip. I briefly wonder if my red, cherry-flavored lip gloss is still on, or if it’s been smudged onto Griff. He licks me, just on the outside, and a shudder rips through me.

I flick my tongue against his, getting my first taste of him. A tease, really.

It’s not enough.

It’s like when I had my first glass of red wine. It was heady and powerful, and if I had one too many glasses, I’d be a very happy drunk. But his kisses don’t make my senses go hazy or call my judgment into question. The mere taste of him brings everything into crystal clear focus.

And I want more.

I
need
more.

He sweeps his tongue inside, tasting me deeper, and there’s another low rumble that reverberates from his chest into his kiss. It’s utterly delicious, that rough sound of need, and I moan into him, soft and warm and giving.

He tastes me. Thoroughly. Not as gentle, but still very determined and assured. This is a guy who knows what he wants and knows exactly how he’s going to get it. Griff wants me just as much as I want him.

His kisses slow to a delicious crawl until he lifts his head. Not far. Just enough where if I leaned up, I could claim his mouth once more. But I stay where I am, my heart beating hard and fast, because I know where this is headed.

At least I hope I know where this is headed. Because if I’m wrong? It’s going to feel like a complete blow. And I’m not going to lie, I’ll feel devastated, because there’s
something
here, and I really want to explore whatever that
something
is.

His eyes look almost black now, and he raises one hand to graze his fingers against my face, sweeping across the cheekbones, and then testing the plushness of my kiss-swollen mouth. He looks equally as kissed, his hair completely disheveled, and the heat in his expression tells me he wants more.

As if he can’t resist, Griff lowers his head, his mouth brushing against mine. A fleeting kiss that lingers into a simmering boil, hot and wild, robbing me breathless. And even when we try to stop kissing, like when he takes a breath as if to straighten, my hand curls into the slight opening of his shirt at his neck and I tug him back to me. But we have to stop, if only to go somewhere more private, where if we got naked, we wouldn’t be in danger of getting arrested for public indecency or worse.