I didn’t need to pretend with Tim. I didn’t have to project into the future. Now could be enough. This could be enough. Tonight, I was brave with victory. I’d said no to a man I didn’t want. I could say yes to one I did.
Actions speak louder than words.
I grinned. “Prove it.”
Tim went still. For a second I thought he wouldn’t move. And then he smiled, full on, and... Wow. That was a great smile.
He held out his hand. Like we were saying hello, like we were making a pact. I looked down at his wide, square palm, his blunt-nailed fingers, and up at his face. Without his glasses, his face looked oddly naked. Vulnerable.
Something inside me relaxed. I slid my hand into his, feeling the current leap between us. Our fingers interlocked. He tuggedme toward him, bringing our bodies together, breast to chest, hips to thighs, every contact sparking along my nerves, a full-on connection like his smile. My heart jolted.
He cupped my face with his free hand, his gaze intent and seeking. The kitchen was so quiet, nothing but the sound of his breath and mine and the hum of the refrigerator. I closed my eyes. His lips brushed my forehead and my eyelids, drifted down my cheek and found my mouth. I returned the soft, exploratory pressure, learning him.
His kiss was... nice. Normal. No slobber, no stabbing, no fancy technique.
He nipped at my mouth and I opened to him, meeting him, matching him stroke for stroke. His free hand slid down, pulling me closer. He smelled unexpectedly familiar, like wilted cotton and woodsy aftershave and clean male sweat. I was suddenly hungry, craving more, more taste, more Tim. I ran my hands up his back, molding myself to his solid torso, his muscled abdomen. He was hard in all the right places. My thoughts scattered. I was lost in kissing, drunk on the feel of him, the subtle urging of his hands, the exciting friction of his body. He palmed my butt. I gripped his shirt, tugging it free of his belt.
“Dee.” He broke our kiss, resting his forehead against mine. His skin was faintly damp. I wanted to lick him.
I sought his mouth again.
He kissed me back before pulling away. “You’ve had a busy night.”
“I’m about to get busier.”
“And you’ve been drinking.” His breathing was ragged, his voice strained. “I don’t want to take advantage.”
My heart melted. Such a gentleman. I twined my arms around his neck, filled with new certainty.
“Okay,” I said agreeably. “I’ll take advantage of you.”
He gave a choked laugh. We staggered to his bedroom, bumping against walls, trading licks and bites and kisses, feeling for each other as we went. His room was dark, illuminated only by a beam of light from the hall. He backed me toward the bed, dragging his mouth along my collarbone, dropping a kiss under my ear, while his hands ranged over me, warm and gentle, hips, waist, ribs. He paused at my breast, as if asking permission, and I covered his hand with mine, increasing the pressure, arching into his touch.
“Oh God, Dee.” He reached for my hem, rucked up my skirt.
“Wait,” I whispered.
He stopped instantly. “Do you want...?” He sucked in his breath. “We can stop.”
“No.” I was shaking, ravenous. Embarrassed. “I just have to change.”
He looked blank.
“It’s my, um...” I flapped my hands over my body. “I have to take it off.”
His face lit with comprehension. He smiled. “The Underwear of Death.”
I nodded, my face flaming.
“Let me help.”
“Ha. No.”
“Let me see.”
His hands were coaxing, soothing, smoothing, lifting my dress carefully over my head until I stood before him in cowboy boots and bodysuit.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
