Dream Spinner (Dream Team Book 3) - Kristen Ashley (bearly read books .txt) 📗

side of my face, my neck, then wound his fingers in it, his eyes watching.

I pressed closer and Axl adjusted his long legs in mine, the scrape of the material of his pants against my skin wildly erotic.

This meant I fitted my hips more closely to his.

His attention went from my hair to my face.

“That was big, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“It was big,” he confirmed.

At his confirmation, feelings overwhelmed me. Feelings so huge, it was good I was lying down, or they would have brought me to my knees.

I dipped my head, pressed my face in his throat and his fingers sifted into my hair.

“You okay?” he asked, his lips in the top of my hair.

“I don’t know what this feeling is, but I do know it’s a whole lot more than okay.”

His arm around me squeezed tight.

“It’s always been big, what’s between us, you know?” he whispered into my hair.

Oh, I knew.

Kiss me like you mean it.

Not once, not a single kiss, not even a lip touch, did he ever kiss me like he didn’t mean it.

I nodded.

“The first time I saw you dance,” he said.

I closed my eyes.

That was when it happened for him.

The first time he saw me dance.

For me?

When he walked into that studio, trying to pretend everything was cool, and I knew he’d seen me lose it, and the expression on his face said he wanted to sweep me away.

Take me someplace safe.

Slay dragons for me.

No one had ever looked at me like that in my life.

So yeah.

That was when it happened for me too.

“Yeah,” I said against his skin.

“You’re remarkable, Hattie.”

I flattened my hand against his back, pressing in.

My voice was husky when I said, “You too.”

“No, listen to me, hear me, baby, you’re remarkable, Hattie.”

I pulled my face out of his throat, tipped my head back, slid my hand up into his hair and drew his mouth down to mine.

I kissed him.

And I meant it.

He then kissed me at the same time he rolled me.

We went slower that time, and he lost the cargos completely.

But in the end, it was just as big.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Scratched the Surface

HATTIE

Hands woke me.

And lips.

I stretched, languorous.

Axl, his heat spooning me in his bed, slid his mouth from my shoulder to my ear.

“Mornin’, baby,” he murmured there.

I stretched again, more languorously.

He was here.

With me.

He’d slept here.

With me.

“Morning,” I whispered.

His hand hit my hip.

“Wanna go down on you,” he said.

Oh yes.

We hadn’t done that yet.

I twisted my neck and caught his eyes.

So beautiful.

“’Kay,” I agreed.

Those icy-blues shone with humor and something even better before he took my mouth in a slow, Sunday morning kiss.

Then, with that hand at my hip, he pressed me to my back, and he wasn’t kidding.

He wanted to go down on me.

I was sleepily surprised that, without preamble, he slid my panties off, opened me to him, and dipped right in.

I didn’t need any preamble when he got down to business.

Holy heck.

Axl purred when he ate a woman out.

It was sublime.

* * *

Croissants, butter, jam, coffee, me in my nightie, Axl in his sleep pants (these black with a black elastic band), post-orgasm (me, two, Axl, one) and his bed.

I’d never had one, but I recognized it immediately.

My perfect morning.

“What do you wanna do today?” he asked, twisting to put his coffee mug to a nightstand after taking a sip.

Go down on you, fuck, you go down on me again, fuck more, move on to making love and sometime in there eat and snooze before we pass out for the night, I did not say.

“I don’t know, what do you wanna do?” I asked instead.

“Finish breakfast, fuck, nap, fuck, eat lunch, maybe a quick tourney of Pac-Man, fuck again, eat dinner, watch a movie, fuck then sleep,” he said mostly what I thought, with some welcome alterations.

I bit off a hunk of croissant and jam and smiled at him with my mouth closed.

He watched my mouth as he queried, “Is that indication you’re down with my plan?”

I nodded exuberantly while chewing.

He chuckled and grabbed the knife that was in the jam jar. A jar that sat on a dinner plate which was acting as a tray on his bed.

He thus commenced in loading up his croissant.

He liked a lot of jam.

So did I.

Mm.

“You were beautiful last night, baby,” he murmured before he took his own bite.

Yes.

He’d told me that last night.

Not that a repeat sucked.

“Thanks,” I said shyly.

“Particularly liked ‘Do You Wanna Touch Me.’ ”

He would.

“I got that when you touched me there a lot after we got back from Smithie’s,” I joked.

“Punk in pointe shoes,” he muttered, going for some butter to prepare his next bite. “Fuckin’ genius.”

I felt something skate over my skin.

And the sensation was like someone was trailing a soft cashmere blanket over my body.

That said …

I didn’t often pull out the pointe shoes at Smithie’s. If it didn’t work for the routines—which were meant to be provocative, titillating, not a showcase of dancing talent, so they didn’t often work—I didn’t try to fit them in.

But there was something gloriously suggestive in adding the grace of being en pointe with the hard chords and blatant invitation of that song.

I couldn’t run away en pointe.

So if you wanted to touch, all you had to do was reach out, and I couldn’t get away.

You had me.

But genius?

“Thanks,” I repeated, my voice funny.

His gaze came to me.

“What?” he asked.

“What what?” I asked back.

“What’s with the voice?”

It wasn’t like he was deaf, though it was coming clear he wasn’t one to let things slide.

“Just …” I tipped my head to the side, “genius?”

“You think I’m full of shit?” he asked bluntly.

Nope, definitely not one to let things slide.

“No,” I answered. “I think you want me to feel good about myself.”

“And you think I’d do that by feeding you a line?”

I studied him closely.

He didn’t seem mad.

He seemed inquisitive.

“I … don’t know,” I told him honestly.

“Okay …” he began.

He then tossed the last bite of his croissant on the plate and focused on me.

Or focused