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A sharp inhale sounds next to my ear as Rudy’s hand cups the underside of my breast, his thumb sweeping over my already-peaked nipple. “You’re not wearing a bra,” he growls.
I let myself lean into him, into his touch. “I’m home alone on a Saturday afternoon,” I say. His hand caresses my breast, fingers tweaking its peak, and my voice goes a bit breathless. “Of course I’m not wearing a bra.”
A very masculine sound comes from Rudy’s throat, and his other hand slides from my hip to the space between my thighs. Even over my jeans, the touch feels electric. I know he can feel the heat of my arousal through the layers of fabric, because he cups his hand around my core and pulls me hard against his body. I melt into him, reveling in his touch. His hands do something funny to my brain, my body, like everything is firing at once. Maybe it’s the way his hand moved—no hesitation, no pause. Just pure possession.
The hand on my breast sends tendrils of heat racing through my core, and the hand between my legs holds me tight to him. I close my eyes as he touches me softly, slowly, and force myself not to think about tomorrow.
The only thing that exists is Rudy’s warm body behind me, the feel of the counter gripped in my gloved hands, the breathlessness squeezing my lungs, and those hands.
There’s the hand that explores the places of my body that I haven’t been able to look at in the mirror since my diagnosis. His fingers trace the outline of my nipple before tweaking it, teasing it, caressing it. His fingers wrap around my breast and knead before moving to give the other breast the same treatment.
I moan, head falling against his shoulder, and realize with a distant sort of haziness that I’ve started rocking my hips against his other hand. The heel of his palm presses against me just so as Rudy whispers soft encouragements in my ear, and the rasp of my underwear against my sensitized skin is almost too much.
“Rudy,” I breathe.
His lips press over the pulse thundering in my neck. “You are so fucking hot,” he groans, grinding his hand between my legs.
I let out a breathless laugh. I can feel the hardness of his arousal against my ass. It’s not the most eloquent compliment anyone has ever paid me, but it might be the most genuine one. And damn it, it feels good to feel sexy. To feel wanted.
And it helps that need is curling tight in the pit of my stomach, that my skin feels hot and tight over my breasts, that my legs are shaking as I grind my hips against his touch.
Didn’t take much for me to agree to twelve hours, did it? I just wish we’d done this sooner.
“Are you wet for me?” he asks, his voice low and sultry.
Another harsh laugh falls from my lips. “I’m surprised you can’t feel it through my jeans.”
There’s a sharp breath behind me, and Rudy’s spinning me around. His hand tears at my shirt and pulls it off over my head, and I realize with a laugh that I’m still wearing rubber gloves. They get tangled in the T-shirt and for an awkward moment, I’m pinned in a tangle of fabric and rubber. With a growl, Rudy pulls the shirt free.
I pant, rubber gloves resting on his shoulders, feeling deliciously exposed and loving every minute of it. I don’t remember the last time I was this turned on.
Instead of undressing me further, Rudy curls an arm around my back and angles my head toward him, then he kisses me.
Our kisses in the car, at the gala, and at his house were frantic and hot and full of need. This kiss is different. It’s consuming. He plasters my body to his and explores my mouth thoroughly, mercilessly, until I’m worried I won’t be able to hold myself up without his arm banded across my back.
I only realize I’ve twisted my fists into his hair when he gasps, eyes flashing, then nips at my bottom lip. “Your gloves are pulling at my hair,” he growls, and I can’t help it. I laugh.
“I’ve never made out with anyone while wearing rubber gloves,” I admit.
“I never thought I’d find it hot, but here we are.”
Rudy leans back, his hips still glued against mine, as his hands slide over my shoulders and down my arms. He finally tears his gaze away from mine to help me tug the rubber gloves off one hand, then the other. He tosses them aside and they land beside the sink with a wet slap.
“I’m not sure twelve hours will be enough for all the things I want to do,” he says.
The counter bites the back of my hips as I lean into it and arch my back.
And Rudy lets out a low, masculine growl.
His fingers find the zipper at the front of my jeans, and I can almost feel each of the zipper’s teeth spread apart as he tugs it down. My hands seem to have a mind of their own, sliding over Rudy’s arms and tracing the hard lines of his shoulders. I tug at the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt as he works to unzip my jeans, but stop when his lips descend on mine again.
We don’t talk, but our bodies do. Desire rises in me so fast I feel dizzy. All the fear, the dread, the worry that I’ve felt over the past few months is burned away with white-hot lust. In the dark recesses of my mind, I wonder if my worry will come back with a vengeance in the light of morning tomorrow, but I’m too far gone to care.
I have breast cancer. I’m pregnant. And I’m going to sleep with Rudy.
All three of those things are true.
The zipper finally conquered, Rudy wastes no time in sliding his hand exactly where it was moments ago—minus a few layers of clothing. We both gasp hard when he does, his fingers exploring the wetness of my arousal.
