Kat had about half a second to duck before Mark made contact, then maybe another second or two before things got serious. She sailed past both deadlines without so much as putting up a token resistance. She'd learned four years ago just how lethal Mark's kisses were. She knew the risks, the cost/benefit analysis, the price-to-earnings ratio. If pecks on the cheek from her elderly Aunt Bessie were junk bonds, Mark's kisses were blue chip.
Chocolate chip. Thick, sweet fudge. Dark bittersweet with a hint of mocha. The smoothest, most delectable Bordeaux cream center.
She held him in a death grip, her heart hammering in her ears. His mouth moved over hers restlessly, his heat melting into her, the moist taste of him jacking up her senses until she thought she'd explode. He hadn't tried so much as an exploratory tongue battle, teasing her instead with just his lips. Here she was ready to wrap her legs around his hips and he was being shy.
She tried to make the first move, extending the tip of her tongue, running it along his lower lip. He just sucked at her, one hand against the back of her head, the other making a slow exploration of the hem of her sweatshirt. When she attempted to plunge deeper inside his mouth, he edged away, tracing an agonizingly slow trail along her cheek, her jaw, to her ear. He was being damn annoying, withholding a full-on tongue war, and she would have objected if her legs hadn't turned to vapor the instant she felt his wet kisses in her ear. Maybe she'd complain in a moment, once the oxygen that had vacated the general vicinity returned.
He'd worked his hand under her shirt and started up the groove of her spine. He had to know she hadn't bothered with a bra this morning; she was pretty much mashed against his chest. Even still, when his fingers grazed the middle of her back then hesitated, she could almost see the images in his mind--his hand over her breast, his palm stroking the tips until they were tight and sensitive, his other hand between her legs...
He shifted his focus to her mouth again and his tongue plunged inside. She couldn't moan, couldn't so much as gasp for air. Her skin burned, her nerve endings did the screaming for her. She was about to come just from a kiss.
He felt it in her, had always been so wickedly attuned to her physical response he could arouse her with the touch of a fingertip. Now he reached down and grabbed one leg, hooked it up over his hip, then widened his stance and wrapped her other leg around him. His hard length molded against her, pressed into her. She didn't have a chance.
He swallowed her first cry with his mouth. He drank up every shudder, each ecstatic convulsion as she rocked against him. She exploded like Mt. Ranier, molten rock flying into the heavens.
Bit by bit, her brain returned from its enforced vacation and became aware of the awkwardness of her position. Her heel was jammed into his butt, his T-shirt was balled up in her hands and his face was pushed into her neck. Her body was still alert as a puppy and eager for part deux, but the cold chill of hindsight had its own agenda.
"Lordie," she muttered to the crystal blue sky. "Oh, Lordie."
Shell-shocked and idiot brained, she let go of his T-shirt and pushed against him. He let her go readily enough, gently lowering her to the ground. He kept his gaze fixed on the grass at his feet as she straightened her sweatpants and jerked her shirt back around her hips.
"Well," he said, the single word a low, enticing rumble.
Damned if she didn't want to jump him again.
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