More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) by Jay McLean Read Free Book Online Page B

lips—her wet, slightly parted lips and her mint/wine breath brushing against mine. “Dylan?”
    Fuck, I want to kiss her . “Huh?”
    “Can I open my eyes?”
    “Shit.”
    “What?” she says, her grip getting tighter. “Did you do something? Is the house burning down? What?”
    I shake my head to clear my thoughts and start moving again. I try not to focus on the heat of her body against mine when I stop in front of the counter, the glow of the candles setting off patterns of flickering light against the walls of the dark room. “Ready?” I ask.
    Her grip tightens again. “No.”
    I lower my hands. “Happy birthday.”
    Her intake of breath matches mine when I realize she hasn’t let go of my wrists. Now I’m standing behind her, my arms around her waist.
    She releases a chuckle, or at least I think that’s what it is, but when she turns to me, still in my arms and her eyes instantly on mine, I can see her tears. “You got me bacon cupcakes?”
    I nod. “Bacon and maple.”
    “They each have a candle,” she whispers, but she’s not looking at the cupcakes, she’s looking at me.
    “All twenty of them.”
    She takes a huge breath, causing her chest to rise, and then fall as she lets out a tiny laugh. “You gave me twenty wishes.”
    I spend the next half hour watching her blow out each individual candle. She asked that I blow them all out first, and then she’d do them individually. I didn’t ask why. If I’ve learned one thing from today, it’s to not ask questions.
    She takes her time, her gaze lifting before each blow, as if she’s really thinking hard about her wishes. I guess they mean something to her—these wishes she makes. And it’s good, I decide, because it means she has something to look forward to which before today, I would have never guessed.
    Her reaction after each wish is different. Sometimes she smiles. Sometimes she frowns. Sometimes she moves right on to the next, and others, she just stares as the smoke rises from the freshly put out candle. But on her last one she looks at me standing right next to her. Right into my eyes. I swallow loudly, my nerves on show, hoping she doesn’t see the real me. That behind the bullshit front I show her and the small details of my current existence I’ve admitted to her, I hope to God she doesn’t see that maybe I’m just as fucked up as she is. That while she uses alcohol to hide the mayhem inside her, I’m using her .
    Her eyes are gray—one hidden behind a strand of hair fallen from the loose knot on her head. I run my finger across her forehead, her lids slowly dropping. Her lips are wet again, parted slightly allowing her shaky inhales, followed by even shakier exhales. My finger’s behind her ear now, my palm on her jaw.
    Her head tilts back.
    I lick my lips.
    And then I do something I’ve wanted to do since I saw her in that dress. I lean down, close my eyes, and press my lips to hers, and I kiss her. I ignore her loud intake of breath, her palms as they flatten on my stomach and I kiss her some more. I kiss her until her lips part against mine and her tongue slides across my bottom lip and then I do the same, and with both hands on her face, I use my lips to memorize every single thing about this moment.
    It’s the slowest form of slow dance.
    The most passionate act of foreplay.
    It’s not until she moans into my mouth, her arm curled around my neck as she drops down to her feet that I realize she was as desperate for the kiss as I was. I remove my left hand from her face and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her into me. Then I push us back until her back hits the counter. I swipe my arm along the counter, discarding the once moment-defining cupcakes and I lift her onto it, standing between her legs as they wrap around me. We break the kiss, just long enough for her to remove my shirt and for me to do the same with her dress and fuck—she’s not wearing a bra. I blink hard, staring at the perfect pink of her nipples