Love Me by Cheryl Holt

Yet instead of escalating the situation, he hesitated, calculating the angles.
    His body was urging him to recklessness, his cock hard and heavy, demanding that he get on with it.  It was his head that was the problem.  He couldn’t determine the best course, but then, he wasn’t a saint.
    From the first moment they’d met, he’d wanted to kiss her senseless, and now seemed the perfect opportunity.  Like the worst sort of jerk, he decided to take full advantage of her lowered defenses—even though he’d just sworn to himself that he wouldn’t.
    He rolled her onto her back so he was hovered over her.  His tongue was in her mouth, his hand in her hair, and he let himself be overwhelmed by the taste of her, by the feel and smell of her.  She was much too thin, light and airy and insubstantial, like a waif or phantom that had no substance. 
    She was too slender because she didn’t take care of herself, because she valued all the wrong things.  But he ignored her reduced condition, her longing for friendship and acceptance, and focused on the reality of her and what she was offering.
    She was as delicious as he’d imagined she’d be, and he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t hold her near enough.  She was like a disease in his blood, his need driving him to insane heights of desire.
    He caressed her small breasts, plucking at the nipples, but he didn’t remove her tank top.  Despite his body’s insistence that he proceed, he couldn’t march them any farther down the road to disaster.
    He simply kissed her, then kissed her some more, and she participated with a joy and relish that delighted him beyond measure.  When he noticed his fingers were slithering down her tummy, that he was about to slip them where they shouldn’t be allowed to go, he slowed, then pulled away.
    She smiled at him, looking rumpled and adorable.  How was he supposed to behave, how was he supposed to resist, when she looked like that?
    She rested a palm on his cheek, the gesture poignant and comforting in a way that upset him.
    Over the years, he’d had scant positive feminine attention, and sometimes, he was starved for it.  With any female—but especially her—he had to be cautious.  Should a woman actually give him what he often thought he desperately craved, he’d have no idea how to take what was provided.
    He was an unapologetic liar and fraud.  He’d never lived up to anyone’s expectations, had never tried harder than was necessary.  Wherever he went, he caused trouble and wreaked havoc.
    A woman like Brittney—with so much of her own baggage—might need a man in her life, but she didn’t need a man like Matt.
    “Aren’t we going to have sex?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Don’t you want to?”
    “Oh, I want to, but we’re not going to.”
    “How come?”
    “You know why.”
    “You’re a good kisser,” she said, and he chuckled.
    “So are you.”
    “I’ve been wondering what it would be like.”
    “I have been too.”
    “It was nice.”
    “Yes, it was.”
    “I shouldn’t have.”
    “You loose little floozy, you.”
    He was smiling too.  She was so pretty, so lonely and alone, and he couldn’t bear to gaze into her beautiful eyes.  There was too much sadness in them, and it ignited his masculine tendencies, made him anxious to offer her things he could never supply.
    He rolled her onto her side and spooned himself to her back.  For a long while, he was very still, listening to her breathe as he ran a hand up and down her hip and thigh.  He was inundated in ways he hadn’t realized he would be, and he was disgusted to find himself trying to imprint every facet of the encounter into his memory bank so that he never forgot any of it.
    He didn’t want the night to end.  He wanted to kiss her again and again and again.  He wanted her in his bed and in his life and wasn’t that the craziest notion?
    She yawned and snuggled nearer. 
    “I’m engaged,” she said, her words