Beneath the Surface (Sugarlake, #4)

by Emily McIntire

“How about a secret for a secret, little bird? Do you want to know something true?” I attempt to nod, but his hand tightens in my strands, making the root pull. Tingles flood through me, pooling between my thighs. “Yes,” I breathe. His lips move from my cheek until they’re resting just above my lips. “I don’t enjoy kissing. It’s never been my thing.” My stomach jumps into my throat, my knuckles tight from where I’m gripping the counter. “But I swear to God, I’d let the world burn if it meant I could taste your lips.” My heart free-falls into my stomach, my brain waging war against my body. My hands come up to push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” My tongue peeks out, swiping across my mouth. “Don’t push me away.” His hips press into mine, the outline of his erection thick and hard against my stomach. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you,” he speaks against my lips. “Tell me you don’t feel this.” I take a deep breath. I do want him to kiss me. The truth is, not many men have. No need for an intimate act like kissing when the person you’re fucking is just a prop. Pinpricks of energy spark off our breath, drawing us together, begging me to give in. To move forward and let him taste all the ways he makes me feel. But then I remember Annabelle. The one person in my life I can almost consider a friend, and I pull back. My chest wrings tight, the sad reality of what I almost did making my gut heavy. “I don’t want ...