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He straightened, a hand to the back of her neck. “I’ve had every examination known to man, it’s only my brain that’s broken, the rest of me is clean.”
She chased his lips and he was happily caught. Her eyes had adjusted to the low light. He was god-like perfection under her hands and she was way overexcited, her clothing a horrid restriction, his preventing her getting to enough of him.
“Jesus, Foley. I have no idea if there are—”
She took a fistful of his hair and a lungful of breath. “I have an implant and I’m clean too.”
He put his hands at her waist and lifted her so his face was tucked into her belly, her hands on his shoulders, legs dangling. He brought them to the bed that way, lowering her down, lying beside her, his hands never leaving her body, his lips never leaving her mouth, neck, throat.
She tugged at his t-shirt. “Off.”
He pulled away to get rid of the hoodie and the shirt. She could see the shape of him, the sculptured muscles, the shading of hair across his chest, better she could touch all those seen places once forbidden. It made her moan to put her hands on him, to rub her cheek against his shoulder, to put her mouth on his collarbone and graze it with her teeth.
Her ears filled with the sound of his breath catching, releasing, his control shredding. She climbed across his lap, spreading her knees to straddle his thighs, the sound of stitches popping in her skirt making her laugh, giddy with the touch and smell and taste of him.
He lay back with a groan that made parts of her tighten up, dragging her down, over him. He held her while her hands feasted on him, her eyes hunting, her lips foraging. He managed to get the buttons of her shirt undone and she must have helped, but she had no conscious thought of doing it. The skirt was another matter. It was twisted up from his hands, from her climbing him and though he’d gotten the zipper to move, the skirt wasn’t coming off easy unless she stood.
She was about to break away and he rolled them and in one fluid movement, stood and yanked her skirt off her hips and down her legs. She’d had hose on, shoes, until her last visit to the bathroom, now all that separated them from being skin to skin was her underwear and his jeans.
“Look at you.” His voice was clotted cream thick and sweet to her. “I’ve been blind all my damn life till now.”
“Oh, Drum.”
“And deaf, and insensible.” He opened the top of his jeans, unzipped them and her breath left her. No underwear. “This is wrong.” He put his hand to his hair and fisted it. “I’m going to screw this up, go too fast, want too much.”
She sat up to reach for him, put her hands on his still denim glad thighs. “Want me hard, Drum.”
He dropped his arms to his sides, his eyes going to her hands. She was burning up, all her organs liquefied, all her though processes spun to tissue paper. She could smell her own desire, knew she was wet for him. “Please don’t make me wait.”
He went to his knees, buried his face in her thighs, his hands pressing her hipbones, smoothing up her belly and across her ribs, then he hooked his fingers over the sides of her pants and kissed his way to her centre. He scraped his teeth over the front of her pants and her hips lifted off the bed. He did it again and she grabbed for his hair to hold him there. She wanted to open her thighs to him, but he bracketed them with his elbows.
“Don’t rush a starving man.”
She bucked against his hands. “You don’t hurry, it won’t be you who goes too fast.” Her mouth was somehow too dry to say those words while her body was too wet to deny them.
His laugh vibrated off her pelvis and she might’ve come from that alone, but he had her pants off and he saw her wetness. He said her name, hushed, crushed glass rough as he stroked his thumb over her and then replaced it with his tongue.
He was a man who knew about edges, about flirting with their danger, and he took her to hers too quickly, too fiercely; she feared the fall would be too steep. She pulled his hair and clawed his neck, tried to scramble away, pushing back on the bed, bringing her knees up, wanting him to come too.
“Please.”
He pressed her knees open, met her eyes. “Give me this.”
She moaned. She gave him everything she’d held back in their splintered friendship, in that hesitant dance they’d paced out between duty, fear, desire and unsuitability.
He pressed two fingers inside her, opened her slickness, moved them deeper, faster and her eyes slammed shut and she arched off the bed. Any worry she had he wouldn’t lead, wouldn’t demand for himself, got lost in inarticulate cries.
He tripped her off with his tongue and his own insensible murmurs. Then he climbed over her and held her, keeping the rhythm running with his hand till she was spent, whispering incoherent filth in her ear as she rode out the aftershocks.
She got two minutes to breathe, to stare into his eyes, to wonder at what she’d have missed if she’d walked away from his troubles, if she’d have avoided his illness, and he was moving again, stripping off his jeans, back between her legs, aligning their bodies, his actions roughened, jerky, beyond courtesy, restraint and control.
He shook hard when he entered her and she thought she was ready for him, but the weight of him, the size of him, the glazed look in his eyes, reanimated ever
y nerve, every pleasure zone and she gasped at the shock of it, rocking as his strokes took her to that edge again.
His eyes were down on their joining, his hair fallen forward over his forehead and cheeks, his body rigid, taut and trembling. They’d go over together.
She slammed her hips to his. “Give me this.”
