The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 368

Chapter 368: 368 | The First Morning

I started with her mouth.

Not kissing. Worshipping. There was a difference.

My lips traced the curve of her jaw, the corner of her mouth, the soft dip below her lower lip where she always bit when she was thinking too hard. Sloane’s breath hitched, and I felt the sound vibrate through her throat against my palm.

"Lukas." Her voice was already wrecked. "What are you, nngh."

"Quiet." I kissed the tip of her nose. "You said you wanted me to make you forget. This is me making you forget."

"By being, hahh, by being slow about it?"

"By being thorough."

I moved lower. Her neck. That spot behind her ear that made her spine arch. The hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered against my tongue. Every inch of skin I touched, I memorized. Every sound she made, I catalogued.

Nine years I’d lived in this body. Nine years of proximity to Sloane Fitzgerald, of watching her grow from a loud kid with pink hair into the most devastatingly competitive woman I’d ever met. The original Lukas had been too afraid to act on whatever feelings had been building. The transmigrant version of me had no such restraints.

"Arms up."

She obeyed without argument, which told me exactly how far gone she already was. I pulled the dress over her head in one smooth motion and tossed it somewhere behind me.

Black lace. Of course she wore black lace underneath. The bra was simple, practical, nothing like the elaborate lingerie you’d see in magazines, but on Sloane it looked like sin made fabric. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, modest compared to some but perfect in proportion, and I watched her blush spread from her cheeks down her neck to her collarbone as I stared.

"Stop, mmph, stop looking at me like that."

"Like what."

"Like you’re going to eat me."

I grinned. "Maybe I am."

"That’s, haaahh." Her voice cracked when I bent down and pressed my mouth to the swell of her breast above the lace. "That’s not, nngh, Lukas!"

I unhooked the bra with one hand because I’d been practicing that particular skill for reasons I refused to examine too closely. The fabric fell away and Sloane immediately tried to cover herself, arms crossing over her chest, and I caught her wrists and pinned them above her head.

"Don’t."

"I’m not as, hahh, I’m not as big as her." The words came out bitter. Defensive. "I know you’ve been with Diane and she’s, and Felicity probably has, and I’m just."

"Perfect." I kissed the space between her breasts, feeling her heartbeat pound against my lips. "You’re perfect."

"You don’t have to lie."

"I’m not lying." I released her wrists and cupped her breast with one hand, gentle, reverent, feeling the weight of her in my palm like something I’d been waiting to hold since before I understood what waiting meant. Her nipple hardened against my skin and she made a sound that went straight to my core. I leaned down and took it between my lips, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, feeling her entire body arch up into the contact like she’d been wired for this specific kind of touch.

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