Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I say, swallowing as she tips her chin
up, hooding her sweet gaze with her thick lashes.
I’m already thinking of all the ways I might take her, make her regret ever
meeting or propositioning me in the first place.
Things I swore to myself I wouldn’t even consider until she was here
enough time for me to get her settled, and yet here I am, succumbing to the
hysteria in her eyes.
She shakes her head, dark hair swishing back and forth over her slender
shoulders. “I know it’s not.”
Without another word, or even time for another conscious thought, she
fists my shirt and yanks me flush against her. Pushing up on her toes, she
fuses her mouth to mine, taking charge before I can put a stop to it.
This is only the second time we’ve kissed, and yet somehow it feels as if
it’s our millionth and first all at once.
Fuck, if she doesn’t taste as wicked as she did before, the slight tang from
a fruity snack lingering like a film of temptation. It mixes with the scent of
her pomegranate shampoo, and suddenly I don’t want to ever eat another fruit
as long as I live.
If Elena is even half as divine as the fruit in the Garden of Eden, I
absolutely understand Eve’s surrender.
Maybe she is just bored, and maybe I’m skipping valuable steps in my
plan, but fuck if I’m considering any of that when her mouth devours mine.
A growl passes between our lips, though I’m not sure whose chest it tears
from; my dick swells as I wrap my arms around her waist, fitting myself into
the pliant curves of her body, and turn, shoving her back against the desk.
Grunting when her ass smacks against the wood surface, she slides her
hands up my chest and locks them around my neck, using her fingers to
maneuver my head the way she wants.
Sucking and nipping, she creates a storm, lashing her tongue against
mine, mapping out the interior of my mouth like it’s an uncharted island.
One of my hands drops to her right ass cheek, fingers digging into the
meaty flesh, while the other reaches up to tug down the lace neckline of her
camisole. The pale, rounded flesh of her breast pops free, baring one dusty
pink peak, and I roll my thumb over it, relishing in the shiver my touch
elicits.
Arching into me, she groans, the guttural sound making our lips vibrate.
“Do that again,” she whispers into my mouth, flicking her tongue over the