He glances down at our linked hands and hesitates. The air between us thrums with tension.
“When you’ve been thinking about something—someone—this long, you don’t want anything to screw it up. You’re calling the shots here. You need to tell me what you want.”
“You’ll make me heady with power,” I warn, faux threatening, but the emotion squeezing my throat makes my voice shake.
I’m the nervous one now as I identify the look in his eyes. I don’t want to focus on what it means, so I raise one of our linked hands and place it on my chest, just above my breast, and give him my naughtiestcome hitherlook. He takes the hint.
He wraps his arms around me and lifts me clear off my feet. God, the fact that he can just pick me up like I weigh nothing is such a turn-on. I’m about to tell him I want to ride him like a bike when he starts to walk us toward the couch, and I can’t help myself.
“Wait.” I press a hand to his chest, feet dangling.
“What’s the matter?” Concern brackets his eyes.
“I’m just not sure we should do this... without some background music. Maybe some Nickelback? Or a little Fall Out Boy?”
He closes his eyes and blows out a breath. “Kate, I swear to God. I will put you over my knee.”
“So that’s the kind of thing you’re into? I was going to ask.”
We laugh against each other’s mouths; then we’re kissing again and he’s walking and we hit the couch and collapse in a jumbled heap.
I can’t talk anymore because: the kissing. It’s old-fashioned making out, the kind where my lips will be swollen in the morning, face chafed from Ben’s stubble, and I don’t even mind. In fact, Ihopehe marks me. I’ll wear my face abrasion as a badge of honor.
He explores me with his mouth, an achingly slow and thorough study. With each press of his lips I sense that he’s learning what I like, teasing out what makes me respond and rewarding me with more. He goes slow, then fast. Deep, searching kisses that steal my breath, then light, affectionate nips and pecks that leave me begging for more. He’s peeling me back, layer by layer. He’s under my skin.
His fingers stroke my face, lace into my hair, cradle the back of my neck. His tongue dances with mine, in and out, warm and wet. When his mouth moves down my neck I shiver, gooseflesh pebbling my skin. He kisses it away.
At one point I pull back and study his face. It’s perfection. Symmetrical and chiseled. Pupils savagely dilated. I run the pads of my thumbs over his cheekbones, trace the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, tweak his chin. I groom the mussed hair at his temples.
“What are you doing?” His smile is amused.
“Looking at you. I’ve always wanted to just stare at you, and now I can.”
He seems to like that answer, his kisses taking on a new intensity. It’s unexpectedly emotional, this closeness with him. The teasing, the laughter, his eyes on me hooded and soft, almost reverent. He makes me feel coveted and cherished. Each touch denotes another wall torn down, bulldozed to rubble.
After a while we both seem to need more, our hands straying beyond the boundaries of our clothing. I roll on top of him and slide my hands under his sweater, and—yes!—I’m finally getting my greedy pincers on his abs, which are every bit as washboardy as I imagined. I nudge his sweaterup, up, upuntil he pulls it over his head andoh my God.
He’s all muscles and skin, gloriously tan skin and hard abs everywhere. I’m momentarily blinded by the sight. I don’t know where to focus my eyes first. I reach out and lay my hands on his biceps, taking pleasure in the curved, heavy muscles filling my palms.Firm muscles, soft skin.I slide my hands to his stomach, flatten them and push. Everything about him is rock-solid and sculpted to perfection. I let out a choking noise and blink in odd, irregular bursts. He laughs, abs flexing on each deep rumble, and I nearly pass out.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I murmur.
“Nah, it’s just me.”
“Funny guy.”
He smirks, cocky and pleased. “Hey, now. If my shirt is coming off, then so is yours.”
I don’t need to be asked twice; my skin is a thousand degrees. Still, I feel a little shy as I lift my sweater over my head and drop it to the floor. I’m wearing a silky camisole underneath and when I reach for that next, he stills my hands and does it himself. His sharp intake of breath feels like it was snatched straight from my lungs.
I’d chosen a pale blue lace bra to match my sweater—one of my rules for simplifying life: match my underthings to my outfit—and he looks fiercely worshipful of my choice. I send up a prayer of thanks to whatever divine power compelled me to bury all my utilitarian beige bras in the bottom of my drawer after my night of drunken debauchery.
He sits there and stares, appreciating me. His eyes move over my body like he’s memorizing every curving inch of me. He stares until I’m so self-conscious I want to cover myself, but I resist. His hand moves up as if in a trance, then stops about an inch from my skin.
“Yes?” he breathes.
“You can if I can.”
When his fingers touch my skin his eyes briefly close, as if the sight and feel of me put together is too much. His other hand moves to my right breast, and his eyes look drugged as he runs his index finger lightly along the top edge of my bra, back and forth, featherlight. When he dips his fingers inside, I gasp and arch against him.
