Marguerite Kaye - The Awakening Of Poppy Edwards

‘Yes,’ he said, and I knew what he meant.

Another kiss. His tongue. The hard, hot thickness of him thrusting. And ‘Yes,’ I said again. And ‘Yes,’ this time the words a hiss of pleasure as he thrust harder. ‘Now.’

It wasn’t an order—it was a plea. He ignored it. ‘Wait,’ he said, and that was an order, his hands sliding under my behind, tilting me higher. ‘Not yet.’

I moaned. I clung. I tensed. I could feel it and I didn’t want to resist it, though I didn’t want it to happen. ‘Not yet,’ I echoed, like a prayer.

He kissed me again. There was sweat on his chest. His eyes were so dark, his face strained. He tasted of salt. Of heat. Of sex. I kissed him back, touching my tongue to his, and he gave a long groan. ‘Now,’ I whispered, insistent.

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