The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

studying her, it brooked no self-consciousness on her part. “Do
you remember it?”
He was the distracted one now. Staring at her breasts like
they were something spectacular, his lips parted and breath
quick and shallow. “Remember what?”
“Our first kiss.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he looked up and down at her,
eyes glazed, and said, “I want to keep you in this hotel room
for a week.” His hand came up to cup her breast, not exactly
gentle. Just this side of too forceful, and Olive felt herself
clench around nothing. “For a year.”
He pushed his hand against her shoulder blades to make
her arch toward him, and then closed his mouth against her
breast, all teeth and tongue and wonderful, delicious suction.
Olive whimpered against the back of her hand, because she
hadn’t known, hadn’t thought that she’d be so sensitive, but
her nipples were tight and raw and almost sore, and if he
didn’t do something, she’d—
“You’re edible, Olive.”
His palm pressed against her spine, and Olive arched a
little more. An offering of sorts. “That’s probably an insult,”
she breathed out with a smile, “considering that you only like
wheatgrass and broccoli— Oh.”
He could fit her entire breast in his mouth. All of it. He
groaned in the back of his throat, and it was clear that he’d
love to swallow her whole. Olive should touch him, too—she
was the one who’d asked for this, and it followed that she
should make sure that being with her was not a chore for him.
Maybe put her hand back where he’d dragged it earlier and
stroke? He could instruct her on how he liked it. Maybe this
was a one-time thing and they were never going to talk about
it again, but Olive couldn’t help herself—she just wanted him
to like this. To like her.