“All of the above.” I move toward her, settling beside her on the mattress. “But especially my bed.”
Her smile falters slightly, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. But before I can overthink it, I lean in and kiss her again, gently at first and then with increasing urgency as she responds. I guide her back until she’s lying down with her head on my pillow, her hair fanning out in a dark halo against the navy-blue fabric.
I stretch out beside her, propping myself on one elbow while my other hand caresses her stomach, where her shirt has ridden up. Her skin is warm, almost hot, beneath my fingertips. WhenI shift to settle my weight half on top of her, I can feel the heat radiating from between her legs, and my brain short-circuits.
The thought of sliding my hand down there, of feeling exactly how wet she is, of watching her face as I push a finger inside her—it’s almost overwhelming. And it takes every bit of mental firepower I’ve got to prevent my muscles from taking matters into their own hand, and trying to utterly ravish her as fast as possible.
But I promised slow.
So instead, I let my hand travel upward, underneath her top, tracing the outline of her ribs until I reach the lace of her bra. I run my finger along the edge, feeling the contrast between the delicate fabric and her soft skin. When I brush my thumb over the center of her bra, she gasps, arching slightly into my touch.
“Is this OK?” I ask, watching her face carefully.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Very OK.”
I continue my exploration, circling her nipple through the lace, watching in fascination as her breathing quickens. When I apply a little more pressure, she makes a small, desperate sound that shoots straight to my groin. But, again, every bit of willpower I’ve got tells me to take it easy… take it slow… not ruin it…
“I want to take this off,” I say, tugging gently at her shirt. “Can I?”
She nods, already reaching for the hem herself. Together we pull it over her head, and then she’s lying there in a pale blue lace bra that does amazing things for her chest. I trace the edge of the cup where it meets her skin, almost reverently.
“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her, meaning every syllable.
Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she reaches up to run her fingers through my hair, pulling me down for another kiss. I engulf her mouth, even as my handcontinues to massage her breast through her bra. Her nipple is hard against my palm.
“Em,” I murmur against her skin. “Can I taste you? Here?” I brush my thumb over her nipple again to make my meaning clear.
She looks dazed for a moment, as if she’s having trouble processing the question. In fact, for the first time it occurs to me that she’s like dough in my hands, totally malleable. It makes me doubly careful not to assume anything with her, or do anything that might ruin this.
But, in response to my question, that shy smile returns, along with a little bite of her lower lip that drives me wild. She nods, a small, tentative movement. I can tell she’s trying really hard to keep from spewing out a million words, both tense and excited at the same time.
“Words, please,” I say gently, trying to relax her. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” she whispers, then smiles and clears her throat. “Yes, I’d like that.”
After looking into her eyes for a second and seeing nothing but want, I reach behind her to unclasp her bra, my fingers surprisingly steady despite the anticipation coursing through me. When the clasp comes free, I ease the straps down her arms, revealing her breasts to my gaze for the first time.
They’re perfect—not large, but not too small, with rosy nipples that tighten even further as the cool air hits them. Or maybe it’s my heated gaze. Either way, it’s the most erotic thing I’ve seen in a long time. And there’s not a thing in this world I want more right now than to have my way with them.
I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking gently at first, then with a bit more pressure when she moans. Her hands find my hair again, holding me to her as I circle thesensitive peak with my tongue. I bring my hand up to cup her other breast, squeezing as I roll the nipple between my fingers.
“Oh God,” she gasps, her hips shifting restlessly beneath me.
I switch to her other breast, giving it the same attention while my hand takes over the first, keeping the nipple tight and wet from my mouth. Her whole body is responding to my touch—little shivers, soft moans, the way her hips seem to be seeking friction against something, anything.
The knowledge that I’m the one making her feel this way, that she’s this responsive to my touch, sends a surge of possessiveness through me that I wasn’t expecting. I want to make her feel good. I want to be the one who shows her pleasure.
I’ve had the hots for her for months now.
But now I want to make her hot and bothered.
I move back up to kiss her mouth again, pressing my body more firmly against hers. Even through our jeans, I can feel the heat of her, and I know she can feel how hard I am. And, as if on cue, her hands slip under my shirt, tracing the muscles of my back, and I groan at the contact.
I want to feel her hands everywhere.
She’s getting hotter by the second, her body practically radiating against mine. Her thighs shift beneath me, seeking friction that I’m more than happy to provide. I press my hips down, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me, and she makes a soft whimpering sound that damn near shatters my control.
I’ve been with plenty of women, but there’s something different about Em—the way she responds like it’s all new and exciting. Like I’m giving her something she’s never had before. The thought makes me want to slow down even more, to savor every reaction, to catalog each sound she makes when I touch her just right.
