Chapter 8 - Rebecca #2
"This isn't because you saved me," he says, his voice rough. "It's because there are feelings between us. Feelings worth fighting for."
"Are you sure it's not the pain medication talking?" I ask, trying for levity even as my heart races.
He shakes his head, completely serious. "No medication could make me feel what I feel for you."
I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. This man—this dangerous, beautiful man—has feelings for me? For Rebecca Johnson, the curvy, shy nurse who's spent her life playing it safe? It seems impossible. But then again, everything about the past week has seemed impossible.
What's one more impossibility?
"I've been waiting for this moment," James continues, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. "When I'm feeling better and we're alone." His mouth claims mine again, and this time his hand settles on my thigh, warm and heavy through my jeans.
Heat pools low in my belly, an insistent throb I can't ignore. I've never felt my body respond this way before, never wanted someone with such intensity. But there's something he needs to know.
I place my hand over his on my thigh, stilling his movement. "James," I say, pulling back slightly. "There's something you should know. I'm... I'm a virgin."
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "What? Can you repeat that?"
"I'm a virgin," I say again, heat flooding my face but determined to be honest. "I've never... done this before."
Instead of the disappointment or hesitation I half-expected, a slow smile spreads across his face.
"If you want this," he says, "I promise to make it comfortable for you." His hand squeezes my thigh gently. "Besides, I can't even give it my all right now, or the stitches will break."
His words send a fresh wave of heat through me. This is just the beginning. Once he's fully healed... My imagination runs wild with possibilities.
"I'm ready," I tell him, surprised by my own boldness. "If I'm going to lose my virginity, I want it to be with you."
He doesn't waste a second. His mouth is on mine again, hungrier now. I throw myself into the kiss, pulling off my shirt with trembling hands. His lips move to my neck, my collarbone, trailing fire across my skin as he unclasps my bra and tosses it aside.
When his hands cup my breasts, I gasp at the sensation. His thumbs brush over my nipples, teasing them into tight peaks before his mouth replaces his fingers, his tongue swirling hot and wet around one sensitive bud.
My body responds with a need so intense it's almost painful.
Between my thighs, I'm wet and aching, wanting to touch myself but too self-conscious to do it.
Instead, my eyes drift downward, to where his erection strains against his jeans.
Without thinking, I reach out, palm pressing against the hard length of him.
His sharp intake of breath tells me I've done something right. Encouraged, I stroke him through the denim, marveling at the heat and size of him.
His hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of my jeans, deftly unbuttoning them. He slips his fingers inside, beneath my panties, finding me wet and ready. When he touches my clit, I arch my back, a moan escaping me.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs against my breast. "So beautiful."
His fingers work magic, circling and stroking with a skill that has me panting in minutes. I barely notice him tugging my jeans down until they're around my ankles, my panties following. Suddenly I'm naked from the waist down, my most intimate parts exposed to his gaze.
Instinctively, I try to cover myself, but he gently stops me. "Don't," he says. "You're beautiful. Every inch of you."
Before I can respond, he's moving down my body, kneeling between my legs despite his injury.
"You shouldn't," I protest weakly. "Your wound—"
"I've been locked up for eighteen months," he cuts me off, his breath hot against my inner thigh. "I'm starving."
His tongue finds me then, one long stroke from entrance to clit that has me gripping the couch cushions. Nothing in my limited experience prepared me for this. The wet heat of his mouth, the expert flick of his tongue, the building pressure that makes my thighs tremble.
He places both hands on my inner thighs, holding me open as he explores every sensitive fold. I writhe beneath him, arching my back, lost in sensation. Sweat beads on my forehead as pressure builds low in my belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that grows with each pass of his tongue.
When he slides one finger inside me while his tongue continues its relentless attention to my clit, the coil snaps. I come with a cry, my body clenching around his finger, waves of pleasure washing over me with an intensity I've never experienced alone.
He looks up at me, satisfaction evident in his expression. "Already done," he asks, "or ready for the main course?"
I'm still panting, my body humming with aftershocks, but I know what I want. "Ready," I breathe, spreading my thighs wider in invitation.
He stands, unbuckling his belt with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine. There's something intensely erotic about watching him undress, about knowing what's coming. He pushes his jeans down, then his briefs, and his erection springs free, thick and hard.
I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around his length. His skin is incredibly soft over steel hardness, and he groans as I stroke his cock, learning the feel of him. He grows even harder in my hand, impossibly larger.
"Fuck me," I say, the words strange and thrilling on my tongue. "I want you inside me."
He positions himself between my legs, one hand guiding his cock to my entrance. "Slow," he warns. "It might hurt at first."