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He kissed me lightly. “How ’bout this? I’ll tell you my fear if you tell me yours.”
I blurted it fast. “I’m afraid you want something from me that I can’t give you.”
He nodded, accepting what I’d said at face value, not realizing what I’d just admitted. “And my fear is that I want somethin’ you don’t.” He inhaled slowly. “So. Where’s that leave us?”
I looked around. “In your kitchen.”
He pulled my mouth down to his. Kissing me and tasting the hint of the cake still on my tongue, he whispered, “Happy birthday, Samantha.”
“Happy birthday, Frank. Does my cake taste good?”
“You taste good,” he said, and his hands slid down until he was pushing and pulling my hips, moving us together over our thermals. The fabric wasn’t thick, and I could feel the wet warmth soaking through already.
His honesty was making me want to tell him everything about my life. I couldn’t seem to get close enough to him. I wanted the connection to last forever, though I knew it probably wouldn’t. We were all wrong for each other, and no matter what he said, I wasn’t sure he was right that it didn’t matter to him.
But I moaned anyway, tilting my head, kissing him like I’d never kissed anyone. It was like my tongue had a mind of its own. I was licking his lips, nipping them with my teeth, and plunging my tongue in and out of his mouth, pressing my breasts against his chest.
He stood, but I didn’t stop kissing him. His chair scraped the floor, and I held onto him tightly until he set me on his kitchen table, placing his hand over my chest gently, pressing me back until I lay before him, next to our cake, in only the long johns and my damp T-shirt. The pink tips of my hair were visible in my peripheral vision, spread out around me while Frank looked me over, studying me like he was trying to commit my curves to memory, and I found myself wishing I hadn’t dyed my hair. I wanted him to know the real dirty-blonde me.
His shirt came off, and the warm ache between my legs became a pounding. What was this thing between us? He said it couldn’t happen. I’d said that too.
But something was happening. Whether that something was a good idea or not was an entirely other matter.
His chest was sculpted. It was the only descriptor I could come up with, like he’d been carved from stone, but he wasn’t smooth.
No, Frank Sims was covered in dark chest hair that tapered down beneath his long johns, accenting the deep V between his oblique muscles, pointing to naughty, naughty things below.
My mouth watered when his abs flexed as he pushed the thermal fabric down his legs, revealing strong thighs and tight black boxer briefs. I wanted to look at the bulge beneath them, to trace the defined lines of his cock jutting up to his navel, but it was safer not to. Instead, my gaze flicked up to his.
Stepping forward, he tugged my pants down slowly, careful not to catch my underwear with them as he went, and he lifted my legs, pulling the soft fabric over my bare feet. It tickled, and I squirmed a little.
Kissing each foot lightly under the arch, he lowered them one after the other and then extended a hand toward me. When I reached for it, he pulled me up to sit.
He hadn’t said a word, and all I’d done was lie there and watch him, but I was breathing hard, trying not to look away from his eyes, because if I did, I wasn’t sure what I would do. I wasn’t sure what he wanted from me.
But I needed him.
Would he deny me? Even though he was undressing me, I still wasn’t sure what he wanted.
Lifting my shirt by the hem and tugging in an upward motion, he lifted his chin at the same time as a command for me to raise my arms, and I obeyed, raising them high above my head. He removed my shirt carefully, trying not to knock my glasses off, and my hair followed slowly, falling back down over my shoulders in messy, damp strands.
It was a bit unnerving as he stood before me under his kitchen’s stark light, so close, watching me. I was breathless and aching for him, but I felt an urge to cover myself with my hands. Unlike him, I wasn’t so physically fit, preferring to spend my spare time lying in bed, reading, which didn’t lend itself to firm muscles and a toned ass. But when I tried to cross my arms over my chest, wishing I owned lacy, black lingerie because there was no way my simple cotton undergarments were sexy to him, he stopped me, guiding my hands onto the table next to my legs. I gripped the edge of the wood, taking my nervousness out on it, digging my fingernails underneath.
“I won’t have you coverin’ your beautiful body, not in front of me.”
Why was it that when this man decided to speak, only beauty came out? He always said the thing I needed to hear.
Dipping two fingers into the cake beside me on the table, he scooped frosting from the top and smeared it over my breasts, above my bra.
“I’m takin’ you to my bed,” he stated so simply, like it wasn’t the single most erotic thing anyone had ever said to me, and lifted me into his arms, my legs dangling over them and my feet skimming his side. His hot skin almost sizzled against mine, or it felt that way at least. He was warming me from the outside in, and I wanted to burrow into his chest to feel more of that heat.
What was stopping me?
Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I shifted in his hold, turning my mouth to his neck, and I kissed my way from his ear to his collarbone, licking and nipping. He didn’t moan or groan, but I felt his excitement in his quickened pace and the pulsing of his cock, pressed hard against my low back, while he carried me as if I weighed no more than a feather.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SAMANTHA
