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He lifts my shirt over my head and sends it flying. My bra, too. Then I’m in the air, sailing toward his bed, propelled by his hands on my waist.
I’m barely down when he’s over me, revisiting all the spots he’s tasted and touched over the last weeks. My mouth, my neck, my breasts. Then my jeans are unfastened, and he tugs them down.
He whips off his own shirt, and then his mouth finds my thigh, lifting my calf to rest on his shoulder. He slows down, savoring this unknown part of my body, making his way up until his breath is hot on the pale-peach panties, chosen deliberately to match the dress I wore that first time we collided.
He grasps the lace edge with his teeth, pulling it down. His fingers tug at the waistband, and then they’re gone, my last barrier.
There’s no hurry. His gaze rakes across my body until our eyes meet. He watches me even as he leans down, connecting his tongue with my most tender parts.
I suck in a breath, but he takes his time, learning each hill and valley, each turn and fold. It’s torture and bliss in equal measure. I grasp the comforter with both hands, holding tight.
He teases me, my body rising to meet him. Soon we move in tandem, his hands holding me up to him. He delves more deeply, feeling my rhythm. The tension gathers, and I forget everything but the sensations he draws from me.
The first flickers of lightning set off, like a bottle rocket sizzling into the night sky. He senses them and increases his speed and pressure, gripping me tightly, his mouth working harder, faster.
The collision is fierce, and my need reaches a fever pitch. I don’t think I can take any more, my muscles trembling, but then, suddenly, it all lets go.
I shudder, crying out, tears squeezing from my eyes. The zigzags of heat and pleasure and relief and release consume me. I can’t feel the bed or even Drew’s mouth on me. Only the purity of the pleasure, the music in my body.
Gradually, I feel my fingers again, tangled in the bedcovers. And Drew’s hair, tickling my belly. I settle back on the mattress, my breathing labored and fast.
Drew kisses the insides of both thighs. When I’ve relaxed, he moves over me, his mouth close to my ear. “Next time ask for twenty skips.”
I laugh, so happy, so content. I feel my way along his broad shoulders, squeezing the bulging biceps. “I’m a good loser.”
He lies next to me, trailing his fingers down the space between my breasts to my belly button. “An outie,” he says. “I’ve pictured it a thousand times since the shed.”
“My belly button?”
“All of you.”
I like this. “Confession.”
His eyebrows lift.
“When I dropped that jar of screws, I was planning to shake it to get your attention.”
“Why?”
“So I could see if you were, uh, reacting to me.”
“Ah.”
“I didn’t mean to drop it.”
He kisses my forehead. “Why was that so important to you?”
“I didn’t think someone like you could be attracted to someone like me.”
“You think that’s due to our history? Me being older when we were kids?”
“Maybe. Or because I thought I was nothing and you were everything.” Now that’s a confession.
His finger taps my nose. “You’re perfect. You should have the world at your feet.”
“Hardly.”
He keeps touching me, his thumb grazing my hipbone, then his fingers dip between my legs again. “I’m happy to show you exactly how deep that attraction goes.”
