Amour Amour by Krista Ritchie & Becca Ritchie

Author:Krista Ritchie & Becca Ritchie [Ritchie, Krista]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: new adult, romance
Publisher: K.B. Ritchie
Published: 2014-12-10T05:00:00+00:00

Act Twenty-Two

Maybe it’s only a minute before we reach the exit, but the trek is the longest of my life, with my stomach tossing, my muscles constricting, my heart speeding—there is no reprieve when you’re falling for a guy. It’s the worst and best carnival ride.

After he pushes through the door, we enter the narrow hallway, walls lined with framed Aerial Ethereal posters. The elevators are in sight which’ll bring us to the lobby of The Masquerade. Make it to the elevator without stumbling, Thora.

I can do this. Share the company with a six-foot-five Russian-American man. Muscular, brawn—all power. Five years older, who’s a perfect flirt and an even better kisser. I imagine all of him possessing me, controlling most movements, leading the charge—pushing into me.

Thora.

I can almost hear my own breath. Stop panting.

Five steps into the carpeted hallway, I’m about to try my hand at small talk again, just to break the quiet. He drops his gym bag though. And he clasps my hips, his gaze peeling off every thin article of clothing, stroking my skin.

I keep him at a foot’s distance, even though I can tell he wants me closer. “I’m…sweaty,” I throw it out there.

He tilts my chin. “So am I, myshka.”

I let him tug me to his chest, one of his hands warming the back of my neck. The longer he just stares through me, the heavier my breathing becomes. He’s eye fucking me. My legs tremble, the spot between my thighs pulsing for a harder pressure. For him. I’ve never ached for that this much.

I lick my lips. “Why do you call me myshka?” I’ve known, but I want to hear him say it.

“Because to me, you’re little.” His hand drifts from my hip to my lower back, pushing me right up along his body. No room between us. He’s not even hard and the bulge in his shorts presses against my abdomen. He looks at me knowingly—knowing that I can feel him, knowing that he’s outsized me, knowing that his dominance is beginning to melt my bones.

With his height and size, compared to mine, I can’t even begin to fantasize how big he is fully erect. How small I’ll be.

He lowers his head to kiss me, pausing a breath away. I unconsciously buck against him, and his chest collapses in arousal. When his lips touch mine, the intensity bursts, and he grips me hard, pressure building everywhere as his tongue dances. As his hands roam. His thumb skims my nipple, the leotard thin, and he continues the back and forth rhythm over the barbell piercing.

My nerves prick, and I stand on the tips of my toes, aching to be even closer.

He hears my silent plea, lifting me up around his waist, my legs split. He’s right. Every part of me is little to him. My limbs, my size, my lips, my eyes—and every part of him is large to me. His arms, his shoulders, his jaw, his thighs.

I feel myself become wet.

My lips swell behind the force of his aggressive, non-stop kiss, the kind that blinds me.

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