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“And that’s because of you,” she murmured. “You’ve given me hope, Bradley. And I—”
His lips met hers, and the rest of her sentence fell away.
BRADLEY
He wasn’t going to kiss her. He’d resolutely decided he was not going to kiss her. And yet here he was, doing just that.
Her taste was a teasing memory on his tongue, and it wasn’t enough—he needed more. It was a bad idea. It hadn’t gone particularly well the last time. She was fragile; he was only just finding balance; they were falling too fast, too hard, into a questionable unknown. And yet he couldn’t hold himself back. It was that look on her face, the sheen of moisture in her hazel eyes, her anguish turned to hope. Because of him. It was the way she’d said You should be proud of yourself. It had made him want to puff his chest until he might float away. It was too much. Too good. And when he’d pressed his lips to hers, he’d felt her melt against him, felt her pain soften against his supportive frame, and he’d become lost in the sensation.
The kiss was more tender than their first, which had been like a coiled spring let loose. This time, their lips met in a slow exploration, a soft intermingling. Now there was time to linger, to breathe her in. He nipped gently at her lower lip, and she sighed into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, let it fuel his desires. It made him want to see what other addictive sounds he could seduce from her.
Slowly he backed her up against the kitchen island. His hand searched for that place again, their first point of contact, his fingers resting against the soft skin above the waistline of her pants. Stretchy, loose pants that would easily give way if his fingers dared to travel lower. If she let him travel lower.
“I want to touch you,” he murmured, his thumb skimming under her waistband.
“Yes” was all she said. All she needed to say. His hand dipped below the fabric.
His fingers brushed across her tender skin, and he found she was already ready for him, wet and wanting. His arousal stirred, vibrated, shook him awake like he’d been sleepwalking through life until this very moment. He remembered sex. He remembered want. But they had always been sensations dulled by drink. Had he ever touched a woman sober, beyond the fumbling first kisses of high school? Even with Melissa? Had he ever once gazed upon her body without the hazy veil of a few beers, or more? No wonder she had left him—
Stop.
This was hardly the time to be thinking about his ex. Hardly a time for dwelling. Not when he had this seductive woman in his arms, and the pad of his finger rubbing against her delicate silk. He teased her until she was soaking, until he lost his patience and needed more, needed to slip his finger inside her and feel the warmth of her sex enveloping him. He explored, and pressed, and swirled, and when he finally made contact with that perfect spot, her moan, the unfiltered sound of her pleasure, jolted through him like she was the one caressing him.
His finger stroked inside her. Slowly. Deliberately. He heard her breath quicken, felt the increase of her pleasure as her muscles tightened and contracted around him. He may not have had the sexual experience of the rakes and playboys he secretly read about in those smutty romance novels, but what he did have was a compulsive desire to please. Bradley knew how to listen. How to pay attention to each shudder. To differentiate between a twitch and a tremor. Bradley knew how to be thorough. How to go all in.
He dropped to his knees, slipped down her remaining layers, and pressed his mouth between her legs. His tongue tasted her slick centre as his finger continued to pulse inside her. He took his time, listening to her gradually unravel against him, because of him. Until her soft moans gave way to these unrestrained gasps that had him swelling to near breaking. They made him move quicker, tongue and finger stroking faster, pressing harder, seeking out the glorious finish that would make her come undone in his hands.
She cried out his name, and it was music. It was everything, that single second, that single sound, worth the slight cramping in his hand, the pain in his cock. He could have spent another hour, an entire day, if that was what it took, drawing that scream from her.
Her fingers drifted into his hair, tugging him up to standing, dragging him away from the aftershock of her climax and into the trance of her sleepy smile.
“I haven’t done that in a long time,” she whispered to him.
“Me neither,” he admitted.
“Definitely worth the risk.”
She kissed him, and it struck Bradley then how brave she was. The more he learned about her past, the more he appreciated how easily the same experiences could have completely broken a different person. He’d barely survived a typical middle-class upbringing. Her history would have destroyed him.
But not her.
She wasn’t fragile, as he’d thought earlier. She was strong.
It was him who was weak.
“I could make a habit of this,” she murmured into their kiss.
It sounded sweet, an invitation, but his mind was clouding over, hurried thoughts thrashing away the focused high of the last hour. Habits and weakness. His ugliness.
“You make me feel like anything is possible,” she hummed.
Fixation. Rejection. Relapse.
His rib cage constricted. He had a crushing urge to go for a run.
Her hand trailed down to the front of his jeans, the stiffness in his cock not yet diminished by the resurgence of his fears.
“Devra, I…” He placed his hand over hers, a motion caught somewhere between stopping her and aiding her. She pressed harder against his erection. Her tongue met the underside of his jaw.
