Chapter 26
He covered her mouth with his, possessively and urgently, and, God, she wanted him to.
It was a mystery to her how she’d held out for this long without throwing herself against him and clinging.
Tending his wound had been sheer torture from having proximity to his body but no intimacy with it, allowing herself only to touch but not caress.
His torso was sculpted with muscles tightly encased in skin nicked with scars, each one of which she’d yearned to kiss.
She’d wanted her cheeks and lips and breasts to know the feel of the hair that dusted his upper chest. It was different in texture from the sleek, narrow band that started below his navel and disappeared into the loose waistband of his jeans.
She’d imagined it fanning out over the flat plain between his hipbones.
Twice, as she’d applied antiseptic, he’d teased her about blowing on him to ease the burn. When her face was close enough to feel the heat he emanated, had he sensed how tempted she’d been to do just that, to blow gently and then press a kiss on a tender spot?
And now, as his tongue went in search of hers, she realized that her rigid self-control hadn’t contributed one whit of happiness to her life.
Her guardedness against having too much emotional involvement with someone hadn’t alleviated the pain of her tragedy at all; it had only kept her cemented to it.
So, heedless of consequences, she looped her arm around his neck and drew him down even as her back arched up to bring her breasts in contact with his chest, a move that seemed to surprise and delight him.
She didn’t see his smile so much as felt it against her lips. Through smoochy kisses, he mumbled, “My animal magnetism got the better of you, didn’t it?”
That was such a Mitch thing for him to say, a bubble of joy expanded inside her chest. She nipped at his teasing lips with her teeth until, with a growl of arousal, he seized her mouth again.
He kissed with passion and heat and longing, one kiss melding into another in an evocative continuum until they were starved for breath. Their lips parted, each of them gasping, then he kissed her one more time, deeply and dearly, before breaking it.
He cupped her face between his hands. His eyes roved over her features, pausing on each one, studying it as though adoring it, memorizing it.
He spoke her name on a sigh. “I want to keep going with this more than I want to keep breathing. But not if you’re going to beat yourself up over it afterward. ”
“I won’t. I’ve already crossed the line.”
“When we kissed outside the café?”
She shook her head to the extent that his cradling hands would allow. “When I walked into the waiting room and saw you standing there.”
He exhaled a sound of disbelief and looked at her as though waiting for her to qualify the statement in some way, then, realizing that she wasn’t going to, he gathered her to him and hugged her tightly.
“Careful,” she said, “you’ll open your wound.”
“That won’t kill me. But I’m going to die if we don’t finish what we’ve started here.”
He lowered his head and burrowed his face between her breasts. She was still wearing the creamy blouse that had made him drunk on dirty thoughts, but he didn’t know until he rubbed his face against her breast that she’d removed her bra before going to bed.
Under the silky fabric, her nipple was already hard. He opened his mouth over it and sucked, while his hand sought her other breast, squeezing, reshaping, gently pinching the tip.
Her legs were shifting against his, and he realized she was pushing off the covers that he’d lain on top of when he’d joined her. Once the covers were bunched at the foot of the bed, he took in those long ballerina legs from the red toenails all the way up to an insubstantial pair of panties.
At the sight, his breathing turned harsh. When he hooked his thumbs into the scrap of stretchy lace and pulled it down to the middle of her thigh, he stopped breathing altogether.
But only for the length of a single heartbeat. Then he moved like quicksilver, clawing at the back of his T-shirt and pulling it off over his head, ripping the rivets out of the worn buttonholes of his jeans, shoving them down past his butt, then stretching out on top of her.
Panties now banished, hips and limbs made adjustments. Hers invited him to press up and into the spreading space between her thighs, which he did, until the head of his cock was just there.
Then, with one thrust, he was inside her. Deep, but not deep enough. It wasn’t deep enough until he was fully imbedded and he could grind against that part of her that was rubbing up against him in supplication.
He levered himself up, hands planted on either side of her head, trying to get the angle perfect and knowing he’d achieved it when her breath caught and she reached up to link her fingers around the back of his neck.
Then he began to move in a primordial rhythm, in concert with her, until their mutual intensity created a friction that sparked a swift climax. She cried out first, and then his entire body went taut, straining with intent, withholding nothing.
When at last it ended, they held as they were, his head bowed over her, she staring up into his eyes with wonder, both of them close to disbelieving the passion that had erupted and overpowered them.
Gradually, her fingers relaxed, her hands slid off his shoulders, and then her arms dropped listlessly to her sides.
He lowered himself onto her. He kissed her eyelids, her cheekbones, her lips, which were curved into a satiated smile.
He rested his forehead against hers and exhaled a long breath through his mouth.
“God, I’ve missed fucking.”
Against his stomach, he felt hers tighten and vibrate with a small laugh. “So have I.”
He raised his head to better see her. “So you haven’t…?”
“No.”
“Nobody?”
“No.”
“Me neither. I think we made up for at least a day of abstinence.”
“At the very least.”
He frowned with self-deprecation. “I had all the finesse of a caveman. Actually, less than a caveman.”
She raised her hands above her head and stretched. “If you’d wasted one second on finesse, I would have combusted.”
“I didn’t have a second to waste.”
“I noticed.”
After a lingering kiss, he moved off her, lay on his back, and worked off his jeans. She propped herself up on her elbow and leaned over him to inspect the cut. “Three of the closures came off.”
He raised his head and looked down the length of his torso. “I don’t see any major damage.”
She continued her survey. “So this is where you hide it.” Hesitantly she used the tip of her finger to trace the tattoo that began just under his left hip bone and extended down the top of his thigh almost to his knee. “It’s Excalibur, isn’t it? King Arthur’s sword.”
“Very good.”
“Why that?”
“My dad has one like it on his forearm. He was a veteran of Vietnam. Had to engage in some bad shit over there. When I was old enough to ask about the tat, he told me the legend. He said the sword represented the moral and honorable attributes that a king, or warrior, or any man should aspire to. The tat would be a constant reminder of those virtues.”
“Why here and not on your forearm?”
“Well, that’s about where a sword would hang, isn’t it? Plus, a man should aspire to be as hard as steel. I thought the juxtaposition—”
“I get it,” she said, laughing. “Very phallic. I studied Freud, remember?”
Then she lay down on her side, and he turned onto his so they were facing. In a move that already seemed natural and familiar, he placed his hand on her hip. Their legs entwined.
“What about this one?” She stroked the pair of angel wings tattooed on his right deltoid which she’d asked about earlier. Meeting his gaze, she said softly, “Angela?”
“No. I’d had it for a few years before I even met her.”
She didn’t say anything, leaving it up to him whether he wanted to pursue the subject. It was a therapy technique he’d come to recognize, and this time he gave in to it.
“It’s in honor of a buddy of mine. We served together in Afghanistan. He was the Catholic chaplain. He was captured by the Taliban. Him being a priest…” He shrugged. “Didn’t sit well with his captors. They wouldn’t even let us collect the pieces of him to ship home.”
She didn’t say anything, just placed her hand on his chest.
He gave a solemn nod, then ran his hand over her ass, squeezing it gently. “Enough of that. Tell me stuff about you.”
“Stuff?”
“What’s your birthday, favorite food, favorite song and movie, chocolate or vanilla? You know, first date stuff.”
“This is hardly a date. You didn’t even buy me dinner.”
He looked down at the patch of paradise between her thighs. “I didn’t have to.”
She swatted his butt. Laughing, he leaned over and kissed her. She put up token resistance, but then placed her hand against the back of his head and, after a few ravenous kisses that established their hunger for each other again, he turned the mouth-to-mouth foreplay more languid.
He kissed her throat and moved lower as he went to the top button of her blouse and nimbly undid it. “I’ve wanted to unbutton you since I laid eyes on you.”
Although, with a mind of its own, his cock wished to speed things along, he took his time.
Button by button, he revealed lovely breasts.
He paused to peck kisses on the upper slopes, to play his tongue over first one nipple then the other, then swept it along the under curve beneath the half-moon fullness.
He eased the blouse off her shoulders and assisted her in pulling her arms from the sleeves, then dropped it to the side of the bed. “I almost hate to toss that. It’s my favorite piece of clothing ever stitched. But… you. You’re something else.”
He lifted her breast and took her nipple into his mouth. His other hand coasted down her body until he could cup her sex in his palm and curl his fingers up into her. The heel of his hand pressed and retreated in a tempting massage.
“Mitch,” she groaned. “Just… just.”
“Just what?” He raised his head from her breasts. Her eyes were closed, her neck arched, her head digging into the pillow. Keeping up the torment, he whispered, “Dylan?”
“Hmm?”
He withdrew his middle finger from her and wetly caressed slow spirals where she most wanted to be touched. “Just what?” he asked again in a wicked whisper.
“Just… Just don’t stop.”
Her beautiful body bowed as the orgasm streamed through her. Her hands clutched at the sheet. She gasped his name, her voice cracking on a sob. Tears leaked from the corners of her closed eyelids and rolled into her hair.
She fell apart.
It was a beautiful thing to watch.
He let it subside before removing his hand and sliding into her. The tumult had passed but, lucky him, he got to experience the sweet compressions of the aftermath.
When she opened her eyes, she blinked away the tears and whispered, “That’s the first time I’ve ever cried.”
He grinned. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
She sniffed, and another tear slid down her temple, but she was also smiling. “How can you make me laugh and cry at the same time?”
“I’m good at multi-tasking.”
Smiling even wider, she squirmed beneath him. “It feels so good. You’re so full.”
“Getting fuller,” he groaned. “If you move like that again, I’ll get desperate.”
“You promise?” She did a bump and grind. He responded with a slow withdrawal followed by one unhurried glide that grafted them again. “Kiss me,” she said.
“Gladly.” He captured her hands and placed them at the sides of her head. Then palm to palm and mouth to mouth, he made love to her.