Nathan remains perfectly still, but his breathing changes, deeper, more deliberate, like he's trying to control it. "This isn't why I brought you home."
"I know." My fingers continue their journey up his forearm, feeling the light dusting of hair, the firm muscle beneath. "That's what makes it better."
He watches my hand on his arm, something shifting in his expression, restraint giving way to hunger by slow degrees. When I reach his bicep, he finally moves, capturing my wandering hand in his.
"You should know what you're starting," he says quietly.
I step even closer, tilting my face up to his. "I do."
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then his free hand slides into my hair at the nape of my neck, cradling my head as he lowers his mouth to mine.
The first brush of his lips is questioning, gentle, a stark contrast to the tension vibrating through him. I respond by pressing closer, my free hand finding his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. Something unravels in him at my touch, his kiss deepens, growing firmer, more insistent.
He tastes faintly of mint and coffee, and his stubble creates a delicious friction against my skin. I make a small sound of appreciation that seems to travel through him, because his hand tightens in my hair, not pulling but holding me steady as he explores my mouth with a thoroughness that leaves me dizzy in an entirely different way than before.
When we finally break apart, both breathing harder, I don't retreat. Instead, my fingers find the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath to touch the warm skin of his stomach. I feel themuscles contract beneath my touch, hear the slight hitch in his breathing.
Nathan studies my face for a moment, searching for hesitation, for doubt. Finding none, he steps back just enough to pull his shirt over his head in one fluid motion.
The lamplight casts him in gold and shadow—broad shoulders, chest dusted with dark hair that narrows down his stomach, skin marked with scars both faded and newer. He stands still, allowing me to look, to take him in.
I step forward again, my hands reaching out to explore this new territory. My fingertips trace the contours of his shoulders first, feeling the solid muscle, the slight roughness of old scars.
My exploration continues down to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm, the rise and fall of his breathing. Another scar crosses his ribs, jagged and pale against his tan skin.
I lean forward and press my lips to it, feeling him go completely still at the contact. When I glance up, his eyes have darkened, fixed on my face with an intensity that makes heat pool between my legs.
My hands continue their journey, mapping the terrain of his body, the firm planes of his stomach, the slight softening at his waist that speaks of his years, the trail of hair disappearing beneath his jeans. When my fingers reach his belt, I hesitate, looking up at him in question.
Nathan's hand covers mine, not stopping but guiding as I unfasten his belt with fingers that tremble slightly. The metallic sound of the buckle in the quiet apartment feels impossibly loud.
He steps closer, his hands finding my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my t-shirt has ridden up. "Your turn," he murmurs.
I lift my arms in silent permission, and he tugs my shirt upward, his knuckles deliberately grazing my ribs, the undersides of my breasts as he does. The air feels cool against my suddenly heated skin.
Nathan's eyes move over me slowly, taking in every detail. I resist the urge to cross my arms, to hide. Instead, I straighten my shoulders, letting him look his fill.
"Christ, Gloria," he breathes, reverence and desire mingling in his voice.
His hand lifts, hesitating just shy of touching me. I take it in mine, guiding it to my breast, arching slightly into the contact. His palm is warm, slightly calloused, and the gentle friction against my nipple draws a soft gasp from me.
Something in Nathan shifts at the sound, his control slipping just enough for hunger to show through. He steps forward, backing me against the wall beside the door, one hand still at my breast while the other braces against the wall beside my head. His mouth finds mine again, no hesitation this time, just heat and need.
I arch into him, reveling in the press of skin against skin, the contrast of his hair-roughened chest against my softer curves. My hands explore his back, feeling the play of muscles as he moves, the slight indentations of his spine.
When I scratch lightly down his sides, he makes a low sound in his throat that vibrates through both of us.
His mouth leaves mine to trail along my jaw, down the column of my throat, pausing to nip gently at the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder. I tilt my head, giving him better access, my fingers threading through his hair.
"Nathan," I breathe as his mouth continues its descent, his stubble creating a trail of sensation across my collarbone, down to my breast.
He pauses, glancing up at me through dark lashes. "Okay?"
"More than," I assure him, cupping the back of his head.
He doesn't need further encouragement. His mouth closes over my nipple, the wet heat of it making my knees weaken. My head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, a moan escaping before I can catch it. His hands move to my hips, steadying me, thumbs pressing into the hollows beside my hipbones in a way that makes me squirm.
"Bedroom," I manage, tugging at his hair gently.
