Page 81 of Lavender and Linebackers

He reaches around me for the conditioner. Quickly, he drops some into his hands, and then runs it through my hair.

“We have.” He leans forward so his lips brush my ear. “But I’m not going to be satisfied until first I’ve run my tongue over your entire body, and then I’ll sink so far deep into you that I’ve found my new home.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” He runs his thumb along my bottom lip, and then snaps out of whatever trance he’s in and pushes me back under the water to rinse off.

Shutting off the water, he grabs two towels, wraps me up first, and then very quickly dries himself off. He pulls a brush from a drawer, stands behind me, and gently runs it through my hair. In the mirror, I’m watching him, and he’s watching me. When he’s done, he braids my hair like he used to, once upon a time. His fingers brush against my skin, and every part of me tingles in anticipation.

He sets the brush down, pushes the towel off, and slides his hands over the dip in my waist.

“Good?” His voice is rough, and I like it this way. I’m doing this to him, and it makes me feel confident in ways that I haven’t always.

“Good,” I tell him, never breaking his stare.

He turns off the bathroom light as he leads me into his bedroom. It’s dark, but not completely, and he points at the middle of the bed. His very large and comfortable-looking bed. Outside, the wind is blowing, and branches from the various trees scrape the house. It’s eerie. It’s sublime.

Climbing on, I lie where he wants me. He moves to the foot of the bed and joins me, stopping in the middle. Taking one of my feet, he massages it. His thumbs press into the arch as he bends my knee so my foot is flat on the bed. He works his way up to my calf, and then he repeats the motions on my other leg. I know he intends to relax me, but how can I relax when he’s touching me? And it doesn’t feel like he’s just touching my legs. It feels like he’s touching me everywhere.

Scooting closer, his hands travel to my knees, where he slowly pushes them apart. I felt naked in the bathroom with him, but this takes things to a whole new level, one I am very ready for. I watch as he takes one finger and draws it through my center.

“So fucking perfect.”

His heated eyes drag up my body until they find mine. He twists his hand and then slips that finger inside me while his thumb presses down on the outside. My breath catches. Next, he slips a second finger in me and proceeds to move them in a way that has my eyes rolling back in my head. Then, without warning, I feel the heat of his mouth as it wraps around me too.

“Ryder.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And he does.

Magic. He has to be using some sort of magic to instill these feelings inside me. I don’t even know how to describe it, except to say that it feels extraordinary. His tongue, his lips, the slight rough edge around his mouth from today’s stubble, his fingers, the wetness, all of it, and then he does the thing that sends me over the edge: he reaches for himself, and I become completely enraptured. My toes curl, my back arches, and there’s no way I can stop the sound that comes out of me. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted with fairy dust.

“Al,” Ryder mumbles against my hip bone as he shifts his weight and climbs over me. “I want to do that over and over again. You drive me wild.”

He kisses my belly button, drags his tongue up between my breasts, and then sucks on my collarbone. My hands are in his hair, and my feet wrap around his calves as he settles on top of me. He’s heavy, and I love it. I love it so much I tug to bring his mouth to mine, and his forearms bracket my head.

“Birth control?” he asks, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth.

“Yes,” I tell him, suddenly feeling super emotional.

You know how you hear those stories when people cry after sex? I feel like I’m about to cry, and we haven’t even done it yet. I think I’m in this post-orgasmic lull as the endorphins, which were just racing through my body, have calmed down, and it’s left me feeling incredibly vulnerable. I know I shouldn’t feel vulnerable. I should feel safe with him, and don’t get me wrong, I do. It’s my poor heart. I am in love with him. This moment is far better than anything I ever dreamed of, but what if this experience isn’t the same for him?

“Hey, what’s this face for?” He runs his fingers over my eyebrows to smooth them out.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know. Just nervous,” I whisper. How do I explain what is going on in my head right now? Doing this with him feels monumental, and I want it to feel that way for him too.

He pulls back to prop up on one elbow, and I open my eyes to find him looking down at me, concerned. “Am I making you nervous? We don’t have to do this.”

His hair is all over the place after the shower, and his lips are swollen from all their activity. He’s so handsome and imperfectly perfect that my heart clenches hard. I don’t want him to think for one second that he’s doing anything wrong.

“That’s not it. I’m just having a moment where I got worried.”

“About?” He’s studying me, looking for any tell that might give me away past the words coming out of my mouth.

“You,” I say softly.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to have to give me more than that.” He runs his free hand over my arm, my waist, and under my butt. It’s like he can’t stop touching me, and he doesn’t want to.