Dream With Me (With Me Book 4) Read Free Page A

shoulder, but he doesn’t stop.
    He moves.
    His fingers glide up, his touch rough yet gentle. He doesn’t have smooth hands; they’re hardened by manual labor. I try to recall where he works outside of college, but I can’t. I’m focused on one thing. This mindless pleasure.
    He strokes the curve of my neck, then lifts my thin, rose-gold necklace. When he lets go, the chain lands like a soft whip. My skin burns, my breathing shallows even more. And I tilt my head so he can continue touching me.
    Griff takes the unspoken invitation.
    He starts where my neck meets shoulder line. His fingers briefly rest over my pounding pulse before resuming their heated caress. He reaches my jawline, but doesn’t go toward my chin. Instead, he plays with my dangling earring before tracing the shell of my ear.
    He doesn’t touch my hair, the loose dark curls that spill down my back. But I can feel his fingers itch with the need to do so, to run through the wild strands . . . to tangle himself even more in me.
    I don’t want him to stop.
    He moves closer. His pants touch my bare legs, his chest presses against my back, his hand is still on my neck. And his other?
    His other hand rests on my left hip.
    It surprises me he doesn’t reach for my breasts, but every single thing about this so far has shocked me. Griff isn’t like any other guy I’ve been with—most college guys aren’t about the foreplay.
    But Griff?
    Griff is all about the foreplay.
    And right now, I can’t even recall why we don’t get along, because it’s obvious we get along in the most important way.
    This is madness. I should think about this. I should be smarter. Pull away. Knock some much needed sense into me. A one-night stand goes nowhere . . . and we don’t like each other. But then, why do I want to have sex with Griff? Why am I burning with need for him?
    I’ve never been the kind of girl who thinks and weighs every option. I’m impulsive. Instinctive. I live for the moment. I don’t want to have regrets, so I go after what I want and—
    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