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But I don’t. I let him lower me to the bed, trying not to look when he pulls his t-shirt over his head in that sexy way by grabbing at the fabric between his shoulder blades. Is it another ploy, a way to get my undivided attention on him?
I don’t have the energy to evaluate what I feel as he climbs in the bed, immediately pulling me against his warm skin. My hand goes to his upper abs, the muscles jumping under my touch as I settle my head on his shoulder.
It shouldn’t feel so good to be this close to him again. We’ve had sex, but there’s an intimacy happening right now that I don’t know that we ever took enough real time to accomplish when we were younger.
His heartbeat is soothing in my ear, his breathing shallow and calming, and for a second I let myself imagine a perfect world where my mother is healthy, and my son knows his father because the man raised him. I let myself picture a happy home without drafty windows and a job I love rather than one that makes me want to pull my hair out in the parking lot each day before I walk inside. In this version of my fantasy, Ignacio is there, a smile on his face and arms willing to wrap themselves around me because he loves me not because he feels obligated.
His fingers sift through my hair as my eyes drift closed, the soothing touch turning into something more when his fingers tangle, making my head jerk a little.
“Sorry,” he whispers, but the sound is more of a growl with my head so close to the source, and it makes other parts of my body come alive, parts that have been denied for far too long.
Jesus, my mother died less than twelve hours ago, and I’m getting turned on by this man. When I try to pull away, to put a little distance between us, his arm tightens around my back.
Closing my eyes again doesn’t help. Licking at my dry lips doesn’t help. I’m certain getting up and going back to the other room wouldn’t even calm the fire building inside of me at such a ridiculous time.
When I pull my head back and look down at him, I’m met with hooded, dark eyes and an unspoken warning.
“Tinley, don’t,” he warns as if he can read my mind.
It’s a bad idea. I know it and he knows it but he doesn’t stop me when I lower my mouth to his. He doesn’t push me away when my tongue swipes at his lips begging for entrance. He gives me what I need, tangling his tongue with mine, his grip around my back becoming so tight I can hardly breathe.
Or maybe it’s the feel of his mouth on mine, the culmination of the two times we nearly kissed what seems like a lifetime ago.
“Tin,” he groans, the whisper a warning against my mouth.
“Please,” I beg, needing something to take my mind off my shitty life, needing it to be his touch that takes me to a different place than the fucked-up reality I’m currently suffering through.
He shifts us then, his body covering mine, his mouth devouring mine as if he’s just as starved for me as I find myself in need of him.
“Fuck,” he grunts when I guide his hand down my stomach to the apex of my thighs.
He seems content to touch me over my clothes, but that isn’t going to work for me. His mouth kisses down my neck, a rough but attentive hand groping at my breasts as I slip out of my jeans and panties. His fingers don’t need direction this time when I reach to pull off my shirt and unclasp my bra, but when I’m fully naked, panting on the bed and looking up at him, he takes a moment, pulling back and looking down at me.
His fingers trace over the stretch marks, the evidence of my pregnancy in the white slivers on my lower belly.
I’d be self-conscious of them if it weren’t for the awe I can read on his handsome face. When he inches back further, lowering his lips to them, I have to look away. The sincerity feels real, but I’ve been fooled by this man before. I want the pleasure without the hope, so I let my eyes flutter closed.
He’s not ravenous, aggressive in his actions like he was when we were younger. His movements, the lick of his tongue, even the tempo of his breath against my skin is measured. My body trembles, my legs shaking uncontrollably as his intentions become clear. A talented tongue swipes at the most intimate part of me forcing my back to bow off the bed. My fingers tangle in his hair, the sharp intake of his pleased breath at the action enough to nearly send me over the edge. I bite my lip, rolling it between my teeth to keep from moaning. The sound, trapped in my throat, turns into a whimper, a demand for more, more, more.
