Chapter 1 #4
Too weak to move, the first lap of his flattened tongue turns me into a honey drizzle in warm tea. I’m melting, spreading, sinking into every swirl. Every lick. Every swipe. He leaves no drop unsavored until I blossom a second time.
Blooming like the flower he’s taken to calling me.
Nothing. Has. Ever. Felt. Like. This.
Eventually, I press against his head, signaling I’ve had enough. He’s too much. With a final kiss to my inner thigh, he stands and holds out a hand to help me upright.
The intensity in his eyes sends another wave of memory through me.
Just look into my eyes for a second. Breathe.
This moment feels like the first breath I’ve taken in years. Maybe decades.
Clasping my hand, he leans forward and kisses me, ravishing my mouth. His tongue tastes of me—salty, sweet, and pungent. I’m nearly dizzy before I find the strength to press his shoulders, pushing him back.
With his hands on my hips, he pops me off the banquet table and I right my skirt, forcing it downward and back into position. When I glance at him, before me is a wall of chest, and I skate my fingers along the buttons of his now-wrinkled shirt.
“Whatcha doin’, flower?”
“Want to touch you too.” I hardly recognize my own voice. Sated while seductive. I don’t recognize myself, this needy woman, desperate to take him in my mouth, and bring him to his knees.
With trembling fingers, I travel down the front of his shirt, popping open the buttons. His jacket has already disappeared. His impatience takes over, and he tugs at the sides of his shirt, sending the buttons pinging, and exposing his solid, barrel shape.
He’s unlike any man I’ve ever known. Any. Man.
My eyes catch on a silver, rectangular medallion dangling from a woven black strap around his neck.
Despite the tremor in my hands, I rub his molded pecs and rounded shoulders, pressing back his shirt enough to expose the broadness of him. Drifting over his bulging biceps, I take my time to inspect him with a light touch.
Once again impatient, Bolan cups my backside and tugs me to him. The smoldering heat of his bare torso hits the coolness of my covered breasts, and we collectively gasp.
Suddenly, the dim lights of the ballroom go out.
We both still before he glances over my head. In this corner near the windows, we remain undetected. Possibly a banquet worker turned off the lights. Maybe the storm has knocked out the power.
Whatever has happened, we are shrouded in darkness.
“I want you,” he murmurs into my ear before nibbling my neck.
Another crackle of lightning illuminates the sky behind him. A momentary flash in the room.
A shiver runs through me. “I’d like that.” I want to be wanted, desired, cherished. And standing in front of me seems to be a second chance at something that slipped through my fingers once upon a time.
In an instant, my back is against the cool window, rain pelting the outer side. The hammering of the drops is like an orchestra reaching a crescendo. The sound heightening, lifting something inside me once more. The chill against my skin is refreshing because his heat overpowers me.
My skirt is once again shoved up to my waist while I work at his belt and loosen his pants. My blouse hangs open. My heels remain on.
He tugs something from his back pocket and holds up a foil packet. The suggestion is clear. I hadn’t thought to ask. Reckless, Ruthie. Risky. However, my experience is limited. And I don’t want to overanalyze his preparedness.
With brawny strength, he easily lifts me, and my legs wrap around his waist. For only a second the heat of his tip rubs against tender skin, teasing me, taunting me. He hisses at the contact before he lowers me once more, taking care to cover himself.
I watch in wonder. His length. His shape. The all-around masculinity on display before me.
As I’ve only been with one man my entire life, I’ve never witnessed someone rolling on a condom. Once covered, this beautiful man reaches for my hand, guiding me to wrap my fingers around his heavy shaft and stroke him a few times.
Desire that hasn’t dissipated spikes.
Thunder that sounds like cymbals clashing rattles the glass behind me. The echoing rhythm matches the pulse in my chest. The beat of my heart.
Once more, I’m lifted, legs easily spreading around his hips. He’s quickly notched at my entrance and with a swift surge, inside me.
I gasp, blinking back tears sparked by the rushed intrusion. With my arms around his neck, I cling to him.
“Fuck, flower.” He pauses for a breath, allowing me to adjust to the sudden, delicious fullness.
“It’s been a long time,” I admit, closing my eyes in embarrassment. I shouldn’t feel ashamed but I am.
“How long?” The question comes on a strained exhale as his fingertips dig into the back of my upper thighs.
“Long enough.”
His eyes seek mine, searching them a second, before something shifts in his demeanor. “Time to make up for the loss.”
Another bang of thunder and a fiery burst of lightning punctuates his words. This moment will erase all others. A baptism of sorts.
Then, he moves with skill and practice, filling me, plundering me, spreading tender flesh and dipping into my ripe channel.
I’ve never felt anything like this sensation. Incredibly beautiful. Blissed-out overwhelm. Connectedness and freedom in one stroke.
As much as I want him to recognize me, I revel in the disassociation.
Strangers in the dark. A vacant ballroom. A storm brewing. My romantic brain gets carried away, but I quickly rein it in.
This is only a moment.
“Blossom, baby,” he demands through gritted teeth. The tension suggests he’s holding back, waiting on me.
For too long, I’ve been a dried flower. A keepsake under glass. What was once shriveled, faded and dusty, has come back to life.
Unfolding.
Reblooming.
Blossoming into color.