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“Or you could practice restraining yourself some more, and assume I can read the recipe and suss it out for myself. And also that I’m learning from watching you. Silently learning, without having to admit it. No lessons, unless I ask or I’m about to commit some colossal cockup. Setting the kitchen on fire, for example.”
She sighed. “Fine. Although I’m likely to forget and do it anyway.”
“No worries. I know.”
She said, after a moment, “So I do have that date tomorrow night. He’s coming by at six-thirty. You probably don’t want to be downstairs. He could think it was weird. Also, my parents want you and the kids to come to dinner on Sunday. My mom’s a great home cook, but if you don’t want to come, if it feels like pressure, you can …”
He put a hand over her mouth. Lightly, but she was so shocked, she just stared.
He said, “Maybe we could not talk about your parents tonight, or your date.” He took his hand off her mouth, but left it on her face. She felt the faint roughness of his fingertips on her cheek, his thumb against her chin, smelled the basil-and-richness scent of him, saw the faint darkening on his jaw that was his beard starting to grow, and couldn’t breathe.
He said, “Maybe you can decide if you want me to kiss you instead.” And waited.
28
THE SLOW ROAD
He didn’t want to admit how much her answer mattered to him, or how hard it was to ask the question instead of leaning in for the kiss. Her skin was warm under his hand, her breasts were rising and falling under her turtleneck, and her brown eyes had gone wide, her mouth parting.
She had the kind of mouth you wanted to kiss and keep on kissing. The rest of her face might be strongly drawn, even ascetic, with those broad cheekbones, that high forehead and well-defined chin, but her mouth? It was the kind of deep rose that came naturally, and her lips were too full to give off the “power” vibe the rest of her was going for. That mouth was a contradiction, and her whole face expressed everything she felt, because she couldn’t hide a thing. Just now, there was some honey color in her cheeks, and he could see the war she was fighting.
He waited. It wasn’t easy. Finally, she said, “Yes.” Then opened her mouth again, clearly to say, “It’s just a kiss, though, not consent to whatever you want to do.”
He didn’t wait for her to say it. He said, “No worries, Quinn. When you want to stop, you can tell me,” and felt her soften under his fingers. That was how much his body was vibrating with hers. Hefeltit.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her. Softly. The same electric shock as before, but worse. He felt it all the way down his body, and his hand tightened on her face. He kissed her again, a little harder this time, and felt her lips parting under his mouth, the flutter of her hand at his shoulder, like she wanted to hold on but wasn’t sure she should.
His body was already screaming at him. The scent of her, sweet as those marshmallows. The taste of her, all dark fruit and chocolate. He slid his hand down so his fingers were brushing the soft skin under her ear and felt her pulse there.
It was hammering.
One more kiss,he told himself.Then, if she hasn’t grabbed you, back the hell off.His thumb brushed over her jaw, and he kissed her just a little better. Just a little deeper.
Her hand stopped fluttering, settled over his shoulder, and held on.
Oh, yeah,some part of him was saying dimly. His other hand was at the back of her head, holding her close for him, his tongue was exploring a bit, and she was gasping into his mouth. And her other hand came up to hold him.
The crackle of the fire. The warmth surrounding him. The cedar smell of the burning wood, and something in the scent of the woman beneath him that let him know without a doubt that she was aroused. His tongue in her mouth, his hand under her turtleneck, tracing over the nape of her neck, that vulnerable spot where the finest hair grew. He felt her shiver, her hand tightened on his shoulder, her tongue came out to touch his, and the power rose in him, fierce and dark.
When she reached under the sleeve of his T-shirt, when her hand slid up, he thought he was going to explode, and all he’d done was kiss her. The train was headed down the track, and it was gathering speed.
His hand left her nape, touched her at the waist, and she sighed. He said, “I’m going to touch you under your sweater now,” because he needed to say it.
Then he didn’t do it. Once again, he waited.
* * *
She tensed a little,waiting for it. And nothing happened.
She opened her eyes, and there he was. His hand on her face, his other hand on her waist, where her turtleneck wasnotriding up. His eyes on hers. Looking … expectant?
She said, “Then maybe you should do it.”
He grinned. Slow, sweet, and so sure. Then he bent his head and kissed her again, and she felt the tug on the knit fabric of the turtleneck.
All the same, when his hand slid under it and touched her side, it was a shock. Those roughened fingertips again, tracing delicately over her ribs. Almost ticklish, but not quite, the kind of touch that made you squirm. He said, against her mouth, “You have brilliant skin.”
“B-brilliant?” It was a little hard to talk. His entire big hand was wrapped around her side now, his thumb sweeping across her sensitive ribs andnotmoving up. She wanted his hand to move up, and she wanted to keep it here, both at the same time. She hadn’t realized what an erogenous zone your side could be, if somebody touched it lightly enough. How could his hand feel that good?
