The kiss

She feels the firm press of Marcus's palms against her bare ass, his fingers dimpling the soft flesh as he holds her flush against him. The thin cotton of his boxers does nothing to hide the solid heat of him pressing into her stomach. She can smell the faint trace of laundry detergent and something warmer underneath, something purely him.

His hands slide up her spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and settle at the nape of her neck. His thumbs trace the line of her jaw as he tilts her face up toward his.

"We're still going to take photos," Marcus says, his voice low and rough. "But some of them won't be for Joe. Those ones are just for me."

Her breath catches in her throat. The words land somewhere deep in her chest, a warm, heavy weight that spreads down through her belly. She doesn't look away from his eyes. She doesn't pull back. Her hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his boxers at his hips.

Her answer comes out barely above a whisper, soft and certain. "Then show me what you want for your shot."

Marcus's mouth finds hers before she finishes the thought. The kiss is slow at first, a firm, deliberate press that makes her lips part beneath his. His hand slides up her bare back, fingers splaying across her shoulder blades, and he pulls her closer until there's no space left between them. She can feel the shape of him through the cotton, the weight of him pressing against her thigh, and a low, trembling heat unfurls in her belly

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