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Her whole body momentarily seized up in a rush of cold anger and despair. Then she moved, startling a grunt from Mick, probably out of concern for the risky placement of her left kneecap in his lap. She turned and shoved, flattened him to the bed, trod another woman’s spite into the ground. Palms at his jaw, fingers spread over his ears, she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, face to face, eyes open, mouth curved.
Heart terrified.
His teeth nipped at her lip before his mouth moved from hers, trailing kisses down her jaw, his tongue playful against her throat. Fingers stroked lightly up her thighs, raising shivers down her spine and forearms. She could feel him, hard and thick, between her legs, and her hips started an unconscious rocking movement. The tight coil of tension was already building in her pelvis, and her thighs clamped against his lean hips as her body fought dual instincts, wanting to press closer, desperate to retreat from the uncomfortable tightness. Her breath stuttered in her chest, and he froze for a second, his face tucked against the curve of her shoulder. His stubble was a rough rasp of sensation. Sophy made a quick, impatient sound, almost a crooning, and reached down to cup him firmly, tilting her palm to take his weight, applying pressure that made him swear harshly into her damp skin. The muscles of his belly compressed as he jerked upward, delving one hand into her hair to pull her mouth back to his.
Mick’s kiss was gentle in contrast to the possessive glide of his hands down her body, his tongue flickering over the roof of her mouth in teasing circles. His fingers smoothed the fabric of her dress then gathered the hem, pushing it back up above her hips. She raised her bottom in response to his coaxing tug and he hooked increasingly impatient fingers into the sides of her panties, sliding them down her legs. Without breaking contact with his lips, she shifted to the side, seized the scrap of lace and tossed it aside. Her own hands were greedy as they returned to the wide planes and grooves of his chest. She could feel his heart thumping under her palm. His skin was not merely warm, but hot, and smelled clean and soapy. Smoothing the tangled hair away from her cheek, he kissed the hollow beneath her cheekbone, murmured something soft and sexy into the grooves of her ear.
Her dress came easily over her head, and their hands tangled at his belt buckle. Their laughter was short and ragged. The expensive wool of his dress trousers was sent sailing to join her chain store panties in a neglected crumple. At the first slide of their skin together, Sophy couldn’t hold back a slight whimper, which caught and pitched higher when his palm slid up her back to brace her shoulder and his mouth closed over an unsuspecting nipple. Her hips jerked against him again, seeking the slide and hard friction of his erection, and her fingers opened and closed against the side of his neck like helpless claws. He sucked hard, nuzzled tenderly, and she cried out again. His voice was deep, rumbling, soothing, muttering broken endearments and endearingly filthy observations to the valley between her breasts. His fingertips played with the indention of her navel, stroked the curve of her hip, ran teasingly through dark curls. The pad of his thumb parted her, found her, rubbed, flicked, and she wrapped both arms around his neck, pressing her face into a taut tendon to stifle her sounds.
He sat up to pull her thighs wider, wrap her calves around him, brace his thick, muscular forearms against the small of her back. They tightened and pulled her toward him as he made his first smooth thrust, taking her slighter weight, supporting her against the push of his own strength. Sophy ducked her head, closing her eyes and leaning the top of her head against his collarbone. She held tightly to his shoulders as their hips bucked together, found a rhythm that pushed her higher and wilder. Her hips were rocking from side-to-side as well as forward to meet his thrusts, striving to end the relentless spiralling pressure. The angle wasn’t quite right. She jerked her head to the side, frowning unconsciously. It felt so good, and so frustrating.
With a suddenness that brought her head up and her eyes flying open, Mick pushed her forward and back flat against the mattress. His eyes were intense and dark as he looked down at her, the movement of his pelvis unceasing. He braced on his elbows, keeping the bulk of his weight from her, and slid his hands back under her shoulders. His mouth met hers again, and Sophy lifted her legs, wrapping them high across his back. The new position drove the coiling tension of nerves into overdrive, and she made a stifled cry against his lips.
Despite her asthma and the current pop culture fascination with tantric poses and spanking, she had always been a missionary girl.
Her arms reached back and over her head, her palms pressing against the headboard. Forcing her eyes open, she saw the flash of Mick’s dimple as he returned again and again to kiss her. There was a slippery sheen of sweat on the backs of her thighs and her heart was thumping, but her lungs seemed to be holding up, thank God. Wild horses wouldn’t drag her from this bed to the emergency room.
Mick shuddered against her as his climax took him, and she brought her arms back to hold him, almost protectively. Before his body had begun to relax, his hand was slipping back between their torsos, between her legs. He circled and rubbed with strong fingers, while his other hand cupped her face, bringing it to rest against his neck, until her orgasm shattered and she bit down hard against his jaw.
They lay there, sweat sticking their bodies together, breaths coming in rough pants, hands seeking each other and coming to rest against the pillow.
Their fingers linked.
***
She woke up in a patch of sticky sunlight and clammy sheets, a heavy arm draped across her hips, one large hand spread over her upper stomach, just below the fall of her breasts.
Yawning, she stretched, smiled, touched a light fingertip to the closely shaved hairline.
Then she froze, the sleepiness falling from her in a slow drift that sped to jolting alertness as realisation replaced dream.
Well, fuck.
No pun intended.
A chaotic multitude of emotions was warring in her head and stomach: anxiety, excitement, dread, happiness, love, anxiety…
“Sophy.” The bed shifted as Mick rolled over. Warm lips touched her arm, the hollow of her neck, the upper curve of her breast. They had closely matching scars on their sternums, only his was the result of a guerrilla knife attack and hers was from a septic cat scratch. That seemed to offer some sort of metaphor for her life that she was going to choose not to closely examine.
“Good morning,” he said, and his voice was a sleepy, throaty mumble.
She managed a smile, hoping that her face was displaying post-coital shyness, not morning-after terror.
He frowned, destroying any illusions as to her acting abilities.
“Are you okay?” he asked, coming up on one elbow. He wove gentle fingers into her snarled mass of her hair, sifting it back from her face, forcing her to creep out of hiding. His eyes looked intently, searchingly into hers. There was a shade of doubt there that she found she couldn’t bear, despite the wariness and the unspoken questions digging claws into her throat. Rescuing an arm from the tangle of blankets, she held her hand to his cheek, rough and earthy with a thick layer of stubble. He smelled so good, warm skin overlaid with a whispered hint of cologne. He dragged the backs of his knuckles down her own cheek, bent to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“I’m going to have to be really crass and skip out before breakfast,” he said quietly, watching her closely. “I have a meeting in Manukau in considerably less time than it will take to drive there, and I have to get back to my hotel for a shower and a change of clothing.”
“That’s okay,” Sophy returned huskily, and hoped that the underlying “Thank God” had gone no further than her own ears.
She desperately needed time to think.
“I’m not late, am I?” she asked, struggling upward to look at the bedside clock as he rolled out of the bed.
Mick looked up from his zipper and reached for his shirt.
“You’re fine. It’s not quite seven yet.”
