"Really?" She waved her hand. "A leather chair strategically placed in the corner so you can actually see the TV, which is massive by the way. You've got a nice plush comforter… that's white. I expected something darker. Brooding. Tactical."
"It's a comforter, not a personality."
She laughed. "It's awfully clean for a man who shoots people."
"Shot. Past tense. Mostly."
She pointed to the picture above the headboard. "Explain."
"It's a sea turtle."
"I can see that. Why is it over your bed?"
"Good lighting. He earned the spot." He inched closer, examining the front of her bra more closely. Ah. Clasp. He reached for it, and managed to undo it without too much trouble, letting it hang open. "You can interrogate the décor later."
Her lips parted, and she let out a little gasp as he traced a path with his fingertip from her neck down to her cleavage. Her skin was warm and silky. He eased her back until her knees hit the mattress. He pushed her back, then followed her down, his forearms bracketing her head.
He kissed her slow and controlled.
And for the first time in a life spent memorizing every detail of every moment, Sterling quit thinking entirely and allowed himself to just… feel.
Juniper ran her hands down Sterling's back. His lean muscles were tight and supple. She remembered the first time she’d seen him jog past her house. He'd kept pace under the morning sun as he waved. His feet hit the pavement and his arms moved effortlessly back and forth. All she’d been able to do was stare.
She'd found his awkwardness at the pub the first few weeks she'd known him adorable. It made it easier for her to stifle her growing attraction. But the more she’d gotten to know Sterling, the more she wanted him.
And now she was laying underneath him with her fingers dancing at the edge of the waistband.
He moved his kisses down her neck and collarbone. Pushing her bra aside, he lifted her breast, teasing her nipple with his tongue.
Arching into him, she tried to wiggle her hands into his jeans. "These are too constricting."
"I have to agree with that assessment."
He pressed his hand on the bed, rolling slightly to the side, keeping his mouth attentive to her puckered nipple.
"You're not going to help a girl out?"
"I'm a little busy." He moved his lips to her other breast, lifted his hand off the mattress and brushed his thumb over the nipple his tongue had been just torturing.
"That's mean," she managed between ragged breaths.
"You take off mine. I'll take off yours. It's fair."
"In that case…" She shoved him to his back and slid to her knees on the floor.
"Hey. What the hell?" He propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at her with wide eyes.
"Are you really going to complain?"
She worked the button from its hole then carefully lowered the zipper before helping shimmy the denim fabric, along with his boxers, over his hips, and down his thighs. Before she got to his knees, he’d kicked out of his loafers.
"You're killing me," he whispered as he reached up and took out her ponytail. Her hair fell to her shoulders, and he gathered it up in his fist.
"Decadent torture."
"One way of describing it."
She cupped him with one hand and stroked him firmly with the other. Her pulse kicked, and there was a slight hitch in her heart—a remembrance of Mark—but it wasn't guilt. It wasn't a letting go, either. It was more like an unfolding. The realization that there was room for both the memory of her late husband and this new budding romance with Sterling.
