March 2007

ZOE

It's unusually playful of him, and I suspect it's a distraction tactic. That only makes me more curious, but if I push, there's a chance he'll renege on the kiss offer, and I'm not willing to take that risk.

I scramble to my feet, a little too eagerly to play off as cool, then pause.

"Uh... Should we get dressed first?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I'm not bothered. It's not leading to sex, right? Just kissing."

"Right." I perch next to him on the sofa, then twist sideways so we're face to face.

It irks me that he's so chilled about this. I'm literally sat here in my underwear, about to kiss him, and he looks like he's relaxing at a spa. Then again, he supposedly hates kissing. Maybe he's genuinely unaffected by the prospect of us making out.

He props his elbow on the back cushion and rests his head against his fist, gaze lazily tracing my body with zero emotion behind it.

"You look bored," I blurt.

His eyes spring up to mine, widening. "I'm not. I'm waiting for you to make the first move. This was your idea."

Crap. I'm supposed to be in the driving seat, and I already feel like I'm on the back foot. He hates kissing, and I bet he's still better than me at it. What if he thinks I'm awful? What if he still hates it afterwards? My ego couldn't take the rejection.

"What are you thinking?" His soft murmur, all velvety and sensual, doesn't match his hard, emotionless exterior.

"Just forming a strategy," I lie. "I've got one shot to change your mind on kissing. Need to make it count."

He tips his head towards the clock. "You can have ten minutes to convert me."

Okay. Wow. Ten minutes. That's quite long. I can work with that. A few minutes to get into the swing of things, suss him out, then the rest of the time to blow his mind.

Easy.

It'll be even easier when I don't have to look at his stupidly handsome face and his insanely hot body.

I shuffle a few inches closer, until my bare knee presses into the firm warmth of his outer thigh. The skin-on-skin contact sends a jolt of excitement down my spine. I rise to kneel and steady one hand against his shoulder, the muscle solid and tense beneath my palm.

"You okay with me touching you?" I ask.

A curt nod is all I get in response. I guess it's a stupid question. We're about to spend ten minutes with our tongues in each other's mouths; a bit of touching isn't crazy.

With my free hand, I cup his jaw and angle his face towards me. He's pliant, yielding to my touch, meeting me halfway as I bring our mouths together.

The instant our lips brush, my nerves disappear and instinct takes over. Our mouths meld together like two pieces of a jigsaw. It's cautious at first. So different to how I imagined Mark to kiss. And I've imagined it more than a few times.

Gone is the rigid apathy. The robotic behaviour. It's replaced by delicate restraint, like he does actually care about the experience of kissing and not just the end result.

Slow, tentative grazes evolve into long, firmer tugs at each other's lips. God, he's good at kissing. So good. That part, I did imagine accurately. It's like we've done it a hundred times before, and maybe we have, just not with each other. This is why I love kissing, though, because every now and then you meet someone who is a perfect match chemistry-wise. Someone whose lips sync with your own in an easy, familiar way.

Courage mounting, I lean into him, arching my back as one large palm flattens against my spine, mere centimetres below my bra clasp, drawing me closer to the scorching heat of his almost-naked body. My boobs press into the hard muscles lining his chest, and a quiet groan rumbles up his throat, one that sounds suspiciously like approval or enjoyment.

Tingling desire swoops through my stomach, swirling and dipping. I need more. More of this. Of him.

I ease my tongue past his lips, and calloused fingertips bite into my skin. He tastes like coffee and safety. Like a warm fire on a cold winter's day. Brushing my thumb over his sharp jawline, I angle his face to deepen the kiss, and in response his hands close around my hips, lift me up, and set me down on his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs.

Instantly the heat kicks up a notch. The kiss becomes more frantic as I lose the finesse I was trying so hard to demonstrate. I scrape my fingers through his dark hair, the strands soft against my palms, and try my hardest not to rock against the thick erection pressing into the damp patch of underwear between my spread legs.

It's difficult, though. Especially when my clit is throbbing, desperate for friction. If I just tilt a little further forward...

A tiny burst of pleasure zaps through me, and I gasp. Another growl from Mark. Another cheeky grind from me. Tongues now losing all semblance of skill in favour of primal need.

His fingers dart up to my bra clasp, then pause.

"Can I?" he rasps against my lips.

The fact he's even asking permission nearly tips me over the edge. Right now, I'd give him absolutely anything he asked for. My body is on fire. My lips ache.

"We said no sex," I remind him, only because I need to get in there first. I can't let him wind me up like a jack-in-the-box then walk away before he's set me off.

"Underwear can stay on." But his lips glide to my neck and suck a seductive path right down to my shoulder.

I shudder, rock against him a little harder, clutch his hair a little tighter. His mouth retraces its path upwards again, then his teeth graze my earlobe, breath warm and humid.

"We can stop. Don't let me pressure you."

"You're not! It's just... if you take my bra off, I'm going to want to take your boxers off, and that seems like a slippery slope..."

He hums, but his hands slide down to my waist. Disappointment simmers through me. I wanted more of that skin-on-skin contact. My bare nipples scraping against his chest.

This was supposed to be about kissing, and only kissing. Still, if he's wanting to take my clothes off, it's obviously doing something to him...

"Are you hating every second of this?" I murmur against his mouth.

"Obviously not."

"Even though you hate kissing?" I try to keep my smile at bay, so as not to trigger his pride.

"I don't hate kissing you."

My heart leaps, and we both instantly still.

"Shit," he says, before clearing his throat. "Sorry. I didn't mean for that to sound so... You know what I meant. I wasn't trying to turn this into..."

He's rattled, stumbling over his words in a rare display of nerves or panic. It's endearing.

To settle him down, I suck his swollen bottom lip into my mouth. The second I release him, he pushes his tongue against mine, assertive yet sensual. The blend of the Mark I know, and the Mark I don't. It's addictive. I can't get enough.

"You taste good," I whisper. "And you feel..." I rock against his erection again. "...Even better."

"Fuck, Zo..." He pumps his hips upwards and a gasp of pleasure tears from my lungs. "I'll be thinking of these sounds later."

"I'll be thinking of you when I'm using those vibrators you don't think I own."

Crap. I didn't mean to say that out loud. Still, it's no worse than what he said, right? And the more we can keep this on a physical level, the better for both of us.

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, thumbs tracing the arc of my hipbones. Deciding this can't get much more sexual without actual sex, plus he's been kind enough to let me dry hump him for the last few minutes, I reach behind my back and undo my bra. I let the straps drop over my arms and catch on the bend of my elbow. The ball is in his court.

He's kept me guessing all night, and I have no idea how he'll react. To further cement that, he gently nips at my lower lip as he leans back from the kiss. The mild flash of pain is new territory, exciting and arousing all at once, and the fact it's come from Mark, who is all about safety and security, feeds my frenzy.

"You okay?" he murmurs, eyes steady on mine.

I run my tongue over my bottom lip, committing the sensation to memory in case I never experience it again.

"Mmhm," I reply. "Just thinking that you kiss remarkably well for someone who doesn't like kissing."

He hums in acknowledgement, and while his eyes don't leave mine, his fingers hook into the silk straps of my bra. Slowly, he drags them down my forearms and over my wrists, then tosses the garment aside with a careless abandon that contrasts the dutiful tidiness of earlier. And still, he doesn't look down, despite the fact my chest is heaving from my ragged breathing.

Instead, one palm floats up my spine, warm and soft, to cradle the back of my neck. He draws me into another kiss, and I tremble as my sensitive nipples scratch the smooth plane of his chest.

If he touches me, I might just combust, but if he doesn't, I might explode from frustration. It's probably a sign we should cool this down. I think I've proven my point. Or has he proven his point?

Who cares at this stage?

It's impatient of me, but on the off chance he needs some form of consent or direction, I curl my fingers around his wrist and direct his touch to my chest.

Straightaway, his broad hand spans one boob, squeezes almost tentatively, then again, harder, when I moan into his mouth. God, everything he does feels so good. Is it because it's him, or is my body deprived of a skilled touch? I felt like I needed Joel, but more on an emotional level. It was an insecurity thing, constantly going back to him because he was familiar and easy. But with Mark, it's pure physical need, and I'm sure of that because I have absolutely refused to let my emotions out to play this time.

He clamps a nipple between two knuckles and swiftly yanks. Pleasure races south, straight to my core.

"Fuck!" I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. Knees bracing his hips, I circle my clit against the hard ridge between my legs.

"You like it rough?" His gravelly voice, tinged with heat, speaks to my body as much as my brain.

Do I like it rough? I think I just like him. His touch. Whatever he does to me. It's exhilarating and natural at the same time. And if he's a little rough when he's usually so cautious, that's an exciting side that I get to see from him.

"Uh, maybe," I say. "I don't like being treated like I'll break, that's for sure."

He tweaks my nipple again, this time holding it for half a second longer before letting go. It's twice as intense, not least because he's staring at me the whole time, watching my reaction, those bright green eyes alight with a captivating fusion of hunger and concentration.

This has gone far beyond a kissing experiment now. He has to be aware of that. And yet I don't stop him when his lips descend downwards. I only gasp and moan and writhe in his lap as he sucks my nipple into the wet warmth of his mouth. It's sensory overload, the sting of his teeth grazing the hardened flesh, the huge erection rubbing my clit, the dark ruffled hair, the broad shoulders, the appreciative groan that vibrates from his sweat-licked chest.

Tightness coils deep in my abdomen, and panic ensues.

"Oh, my god. I can't, I can't, I can't..."

He releases my nipple from between his teeth and glances up, concern marring his brow.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"We said this wouldn't turn into sex."

His frown deepens. "It's not."

"No, but I'm about to..." I swallow the rest of the words. It's embarrassing. I've barely given him any attention at all and yet he's got me on the brink of an orgasm. I'm not selfish in bed. I could have him begging for it too. At least, I hope I could.

But if I come on his lap, that will prick the bubble. It will end the fantasy. Because there's no going back from there.

"You're about to what?" he asks.

I shake my head and shift off him. As soon as my feet hit the carpet, my quivering legs give way and I stumble. He leaps up to catch me, fingers closing around my upper arms as I regain balance.

"Did I do something wrong?" He lowers his hands, and they ball into fists at his side.

"No. God, no. You were doing everything right. That was the problem."

"Then let me carry on." His voice drops to a dangerously low tone, one that tells me he knows exactly what he's done to me—and it's entirely intentional.

My mouth dries up with indecision. We've crossed a line tonight. This would cross another. Besides, I need to maintain some dignity. Chances are, he'll be back to his stoic self tomorrow and this will be a distant memory.

It physically pains me to say it, but I know it's for the best when I mumble, "I think we should call it a night."

His brows shoot up, and guilt tightens my chest because I've changed my tune so suddenly that he doesn't even have chance to hide his reaction.

"Fine." He clears his throat. "Sorry. I got carried away."

"Me too." I force a smile. "Maybe we should have put our clothes back on after all."

He doesn't smile back, but he does reach for his jeans. I crouch down to scoop up my own clothes, then shuffle towards my room.

"Zoe." His voice is calm, once more devoid of emotion, and I pause. "Just so we're on the same page, are you planning to pretend this didn't happen?"

My heart short circuits. I can sense the vulnerability behind the question, despite the controlled way it was delivered.

If he were to pretend this hadn't happened, that would seriously piss me off. I'm not setting a trap for myself, though. He already thinks I'm a people pleaser. No doubt he's worried I'll fall in love with him and use denial to hide my feelings.

"No." I turn to face him. "It was two friends acting on an urge. Nothing more than that. No need to pretend it didn't happen."

His face gives nothing away. Literally nothing. It's like someone has flicked the 'on' switch to activate his inner robot again. That irritates me too, so I slam my door a little harder than necessary, as if that will appease the various breeds of frustration coursing through my blood. 

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Thank you for reading :) xx

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The next Bodyguard update on Wattpad will be New Year's Eve -- our time, Mark & Zoe are still in March 2007 ;) but will they be going out with a bang too...?