Page 140

Then her hand slips beneath the hem of my shirt.

Her palm moves over my abdomen, and every strand beneath her touch seems to come alive at once.

“Rachel.”

This time her name isn’t a warning or a question or even a request. It is the only word I have.

She pauses. “Good?”

“Yes.”

Her hand moves higher. Until now, I thought I understood what touching could feel like. I didn’t. Rachel’s fingers move over the living weave of my torso with the same curiosity I’ve felt about her, and I can’t separate the pleasure of her touch from the fact that she wants to know my body this way.

I catch the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head.

Rachel goes quiet. I have seen her study me before, but never like this. Her attention moves over my chest, the living willow, the finer growth near my ribs, and the dense weave at my center. I have been stared at by strangers enough to know this is different. Rachel isn’t trying to decide what I am. She is looking at my body because she wants me.

I stay still while she looks. Only when Rachel reaches for me again do I move. Her palms press against my chest, then she bends and kisses the sensitive place high on my chest, just below my throat. The touch sends a sharp rush through me, and my whole body tightens beneath her mouth.

Rachel lifts her head. “You like that.”

“Yes. I like everywhere you touch.”

She kisses the same place again, and I close my eyes against the rush of pleasure. When I open them, Rachel is watching my face. I see the moment she realizes how much I like it, and pleasure warms her expression. That becomes part of what I feel too. Her mouth feels good. Watching her enjoy what it does to me makes it better.

I reach for the hem of Rachel’s shirt and pull away before lifting it. She notices the hesitation, takes my hands, and places them on the fabric.

“Yes.”

I pull the shirt upward slowly, and Rachel raises her arms to help me take it off.

I forget what I meant to do next. She’s still wearing something underneath, soft and pale, but I can see more of her than I ever have before: bare shoulders, the soft curve of her stomach, the upper swell of her breasts.

I can’t stop staring, and Rachel lets me look until I finally manage, “You’re very beautiful.” It isn’t enough, but I don’t have anything better.

“You can touch me.”

I do.

Carefully at first, not because I think she is fragile but because there is too much I want to notice. Her skin is warm beneath my hands, softer in some places, firmer in others. I want to touch all of her and somehow also take my time.

Rachel sits on the wide chaise and draws me down beside her. For a while there is no need to decide whether this becomes anything more than touching.

We take off the rest of our clothes without hurry, and when the last fabric leaves Rachel’s body, I go still.

“What?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“No words?”

“I have words.”

Her tone turns teasing. “Any useful ones?”

My attention travels over her naked body before returning to her face. “Not enough.”

The amusement in her expression gives way to something that makes the beat in my chest stumble, and then she reaches for me.