Page 40 of Grouch-ish

He turns his head only slightly and I can make out his profile in the glow of the fireplace. “You’re perfect.”

“Then, I don’t understand.” Perched on my hand to prop myself upright, I stare at his back. Hurt. Confused.

“I . . . I don’t want to rush.”

Still surprised by his rapid rejection, there’s something in his tone that gives me pause. “There’s no rush. We can do as little or as much as you want.” I take a deep breath, hoping I don’t sound desperate to take things further. “We can stop right here.” I don’t want to add and pretend like this didn’t happen because in no way can I pretend Brock didn’t just kiss the stuffing out of me. “And we don’t have to do this again.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat and fight the prickle of tears.

Brock fully turns to face me, and my eyes lower for the solid length evident below his waistband.

“I definitely want to do more of this.” He points between us. “It’s just—” His gaze shifts toward the fireplace. “I’ve missed kissing and I want to enjoy this a little bit longer.”

A moment passes before things click in my head. “Are you saying you want to make out with me?”

His head whips back in my direction, his eyes roaming my face for sarcasm or teasing. Now would not be the moment to joke with Brock as the tension in his jaw remains evident and his stance mimics a bobcat ready to pounce.

Slowly, his shoulders lower and his expression softens. His gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah.”

Like the rush of a thermometer, heat rockets from my core up through my belly and into my throat. His request is rather sweet. And I’d love to keep kissing him.

“Okay.” My throat is still thick so the suggestion comes out like a croak.

“Yeah?” Those coal-colored eyes soften to liquid ink as his hands come to his hips, his erection still thick and taunting.

I eagerly nod and chew the corner of my lip.

Brock tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “I’m gonna need a minute, though.”

“Take your time.” I swipe a hand through my long hair. Maybe I should have showered after all, as my fingers get caught in the tangles from wearing a hat most of the morning.

I scoot closer to the couch and set my elbow into a cushion, holding my head in a way I give a quick glance to the muted television.

“It’s midnight in Paris now,” I say for no apparent reason.

A loud clap startles me, and I rock my head on my hand to watch Brock rub both his palms down his face. “Time.”

“What?” I chuckle as he takes a large step toward me and lowers to his knees, crawling the last foot to close the distance between us. He hovers before me.

“Time. Like in tag. Midnight hits and we must kiss.”

“Oh, we must, must we?” I giggle, reaching out to rub my palm over his bristly jaw.

Brock turns his head and presses a kiss to the center of my hand. “We must.” He nods once.

“Only kissing,” I state more as a reminder than a question.

His eyes shift to my lips. His mouth crushes mine in answer and I fall to my back at the sudden impact. Brock follows after me, one of his legs between mine, his thigh pressing hard at my center. A strong rhythm beats like the dong of a clock counting down to twelve.

“You aren’t playing fair,” I mutter against his mouth pressed to mine, because it’s quite possible I could orgasm just from this kiss.

Brock’s hand somehow landed on my waist, and he glides it over my hip and down the outer edge of my leg. Curling his fingers around the back of my knee, he hitches my leg upward, driving the flat of his thick leg deeper into my core.

“Could I make you come just from kissing you?”

“Oh God, Brock.” Damn him if he can. Damn him if he doesn’t.

His hand retreats from my knee, gliding around the curve of my thigh and the expanse of my hip once more, continuing to trail along my side, inside my sweater. The heat of his hand against my skin is as scorching as it was earlier.