“Want me to leave?”
“Nope,” he says. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” I say, the word dragging out into a moan as he presses harder against me. "Please don’t stop.”
He smiles against my hyper-sensitized skin. I’m so alive to every touch, every sensation, and I just want more.
“We should have sex,” I say.
He chuckles against my neck, even as his hips flex, pressing his hardness against me. “I love the way you think.”
I try to spin in his arms, but he won’t budge. He just keeps pressing kisses along my neck. He lifts my hair and kisses along the hem of my shirt.
Again, I try to move, my whole body aching for more, but he still won’t let me.
“There’s no rush,” he says.
But it feels like there’s a rush. As a single mother to a four-year-old, my whole life is a constant rush. I get few moments to myself, and even when I do, they’re often interrupted.
I do not want this moment to be interrupted. “I want to kiss you.”
Finally, he gives me enough space to turn, but he doesn’t meet my mouth with his own. Instead, he drops to his knees, lifts my shirt, and kisses my belly.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m taking my time” His voice is rough, raw, and so damn sexy. “Enjoying every inch of you.”
No man I’ve dated has ever bothered with this much foreplay before. “That’s very sweet, but I really don’t need any help to get in the mood. I’m already there.”
He looks up at me, his eyes dancing with amusement. “This isn’t for you. It’s for me.”
My knees nearly give out. What is it about that selfish sentiment that makes me feel like the most desirable woman on the planet? I don’t know, but I want more.
“Bed,” I say on a gasp as he reaches under my shirt and unhooks my bra. “We should go to my bed.
“We’ll get there. Now, take off your shirt, please.”
It’s been a while since I’ve had sex, but I have never stood in a room bright with artificial light and gotten naked. When I was married, we always had sex in a bed, in the dark of night. Like normal people.
“You want me to get naked right here?” My voice shakes, and I have to admit, self-conscious as I am, a thrill rolls through me at the thought.
“I want that more than anything else in the world at the moment, Amelia.”
And there’s no way I can deny this man when he’s looking up at me like he means every word. Only slightly shaky, I pull my shirt over my head and let my bra fall to the floor.
The way his eyes heat and his gaze becomes reverent as it moves over me removes any hint of lingering self-consciousness.
He runs his hands over me, palming each of my breasts and rubbing his thumbs over my nipples. I make a sound I’ve never made before, and I don’t care if it’s weird. What he’s doing feels too good.
He kisses his way up to my breasts and presses light kisses to each of my nipples before dropping back to his knees and putting a hand on the waistband of my jeans. The question in his expression is clear, and my self-consciousness returns.
“You’re still dressed,” I say.
He leans back and pulls his shirt over his head. He’s leanly muscled with smooth, tanned skin. I run my hands over his toned pecs, but he grins at me, lifting my hands away. “It’s not your turn yet.”
“Who decided you get to make all the rules?”
“I like to be in charge of the fun, to make sure everyone’s having a good time. Don’t you want to have a good time?”
