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Right now would be a prime example.
“Wanted them, knowing you’d never have them?” he questioned.
Michelle looked down and back to his gaze. “I’m not exactly a waif of a model. I think almost anyone I want I won’t have.”
His hands came to her waist and pulled her closer. “You’re beautiful.”
She felt the warmth as pink infiltrated her cheeks.
Fletch lifted her chin. “And in the fishing hut when you started talking about Thomas Becon, I realized all that I had imagined about you was real. You can’t concoct what it’s like to watch someone, watch over them, and never talk to them.” He tilted his forehead to hers. “To never touch them. To not physically know they’re real.”
“I’m real, but you said you’re not.”
“I want to be…for you.”
A lump formed in her throat as she nodded, ready to feel the sting of his fire.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With her hand in Fletch’s, Michelle followed him into the bedroom. The loss of proximity to the fireplace caused a scattering of goosebumps over her skin, or maybe it was the realization of what was about to happen.
Did she want Fletch?
Yes, without a doubt.
Could she go into this physical relationship knowing that tomorrow they’d say goodbye? While her heart argued with her mind, her body gave in. She was indisputably infatuated. There was something in his kiss, something she’d only written about.
The way his hand possessively wound in her hair at the nape of her neck. The way he directed their movements. And the intimacy of his tongue against hers.
Coffee and spice.
Each nip and nibble of her lips sent jolts of electricity through her nervous system. Synapse after synapse exploded, mini detonations all building toward the promise of more.
She raised her arms as Fletch lifted the hem of her shirt. Instinctively, Michelle crossed her arms over her breasts and stomach.
“Fuck no,” he growled, reaching for her wrists. “I want to see what I’ve only imagined.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are fucking stunning.” He cupped one breast and then the other. “I could get lost in your boobs.”
Michelle scoffed at his prediction. They were large—triple D to be exact.
She moaned as he lowered his face, sucking one nipple and then the other. Each touch was a direct line of electricity to her core. The kneading of each breast wound her tighter and tighter. Gathering her wits, Michelle reached for Fletch’s shirt, and mimicking his movements, lifted the hem over his head, dropping the shirt to the floor.
The sight before her was as if a Greek god had descended. Perhaps one had. That was why Fletch wasn’t real. He was a god who escaped the heavens to save her. She ran the pads of her fingers over his toned chest and abdomen. If only his story was written in Braille, she would read it in its entirety.
“I hope you like what you see” —his voice held a new, more gravelly tone— “as much as I like what I see.”
Their words were as scrambled as their movements as they shed one another’s remaining clothes and together fell onto the cool bed. Fletch slung back the covers exposing the sheet beneath before he knelt upon the mattress, his dark black orbs focused only on Michelle.
With each movement closer, her breathing shallowed. It was as he spread her knees and buried his face in her core that Michelle cried out. It was ecstasy and agony all at once. There was no way for her to describe what he was doing with his mouth, tongue, and fingers. It was too much and not enough.
As she grasped the sheet to remain earthbound, her body ignited. Faster than the flames consuming her father’s house, the heat overtook her. Riding the waves of the best orgasm of her life, Michelle was met nose to nose with the man responsible.
His forehead met hers. “You’re gorgeous when you come, and you taste like fucking honey.”
Michelle spread her legs, welcoming his strong, long, and lean form between her thighs. Her hands went to his shoulders, feeling his heat and assuring herself that he was in fact real.
