Page 77 of I Saw You First

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. That is until I see his chest and biceps and abs, smooth and hard and ridged and mine. And oh, my sweet loving lord, the man has a Pink Floyd tattoo, the Dark Side of the Moon prism on his rib, the rainbow curving around to his back. I want to lick the tattoo, slide my tongue across his chest, follow the rainbow to his back.

“Do you have more?” I ask.

“More what?”

“Tattoos.”

He smirks. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

“Pants,” I say and point. His erection strains against the fabric.

He bites back a smile. “Bossy,” he murmurs. “I’ve always liked this side of you.”

He unbuckles his belt, unzips, and lets the pants drop to the floor, stepping out of them until he’s only in his boxers. My throat tightens as I move my gaze up and down and back up again, taking in every glorious inch of him. I place my hands on his shoulders and push him gently toward the bed.

We take our time. We savor each other. He does things to me with his mouth and his tongue and his fingers that no one has ever done before, sending me to places I’ve never been, places I want to write beautiful, unforgettable poems about and never, ever leave.

I find the promised tattoos—a willow tree, a raven, the four Led Zeppelin symbols. I slide down his body and explore him with my mouth—his warm, salty skin, his firm muscles and ridges—tasting and kissing, licking and sucking until he gasps for air and tugs on my hair and says my name again and again like a litany.

“I need a minute,” he says after, breathing heavily as he pulls me close, kisses me, all breath and sweat and racing heartbeat. We lie facing each other for long, luscious moments, time moving in waves, his finger languidly tracing a path on my cooling flesh.

Eventually, he leans over to find a condom in the drawer next to the bed, and then he’s back and I open for him, and he presses himself slowly into me, and the words he whispers and that thing he does with his hips—roll and drag, roll and drag—loosen me up, liquefy me, and we are finally together in perfect rhythm, a perfect fit.

I splinter and shatter again and he’s not long behind me. He collapses on top of me, sweaty and heavy and hot, and I am alive with feeling and pleasure and contentment and so much swizzle, I think I might fizz and fade away.

I have never felt like this before.

I’m falling—no, I’ve fallen—in love with him.

A tear leaks from the corner of one eye and Wil catches it with his thumb. “Hey,” he says gently. “You okay?” I nod as another tear slips from the other eye. This one, he kisses away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whisper. “Everything feels so right and I—I can’t—” I gulp down the emotion.

“I know. I feel it, too.” He presses his forehead against mine and takes a deep breath.

When he pushes up from me to take care of the condom, I turn to face the wall, suddenly self-conscious, naked and cracked wide open on this enormous bed with the man who is my boss, but who has always been so much more. I feel it in every cell. When he returns, he slides under the sheet next to me and curls his body around mine. We fit here, too, big spoon, little spoon, and he wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my shoulder, tiny presses and licks.

As I’m falling asleep in the cocoon of his warmth and firm bones and muscles, he hums against my skin. In my sleepy haze, it takes me a minute to recognize the song: “Oh! Darling.” The fourth track on Abbey Road.

I wake to Wil’s mouth on my neck, gently sucking, kissing, wisps and whispers of hot breath against my skin. I’m on my back and he’s curled against me, one arm thrown over my stomach, his hard length pressed against my hip.

“Are you awake?” he asks.

“I am now. What time is it?” It’s still dark.

“A little after three.” His voice is both sleepy and sultry.

He rolls me so that I’m straddling him and we’re perfectly aligned. When he moves up for a kiss, I clamp my mouth shut and turn my face away.

“Mmmbrr,” I mumble through closed lips.

“I don’t care. I want to kiss you.”

I shake my head and attempt to move off him to go to the bathroom in hopes of finding a toothbrush or mouthwash, but he grasps both sides of my waist.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Stay.”

I wriggle free of his hold, shaking my head again. I’m naked and chilled and self-conscious, so I scurry to the bathroom. It’s dark and modern like his bedroom, with both a large whirlpool tub and a glass shower—a dream bathroom. I peer at myself in the mirror, wild and satisfied, at the smudged mascara and a line of purplish bruises on the left side of my neck and collarbone. Hickeys! I don’t know whether to cringe or cheer.