“I’m not an alien.” His eyes flash in amusement over his glass. Something about him maintaining eye contact while drinking is very charged. But maybe it’s all charged because I clearly asked him to come over for one reason.
“So, what were you doing before I so rudely interrupted your evening?” I ask. “Playing beer pong?”
He laughs, low in his chest. “No, I was playing a video game.”
I laugh then stop. “Wait, for real?”
He rolls his eyes with a lopsided grin. “Get over it.” Then he looks around, taking in the house. “You have a cool place.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking at everything through his eyes. The plentiful windows I refuse to cover with curtains, the dark wood beams, the warm light of my many lamps reflecting off art and objects I’ve collected over the years. “Want a tour?”
“Hell yeah.” His enthusiasm makes me smile.
We walk through the house with our glasses in hand, stopping at various spots where I point out fun architectural details, like the built-in nook in the hallway where telephone calls were made. Or the hidden little cubby in the laundry room for the iron. He does this thing where he runs his hands over everything, murmuring his appreciation. It’s something I noticed at the café, too, the other day. This guy is very tactile; he likes to touch and taste and enjoy things.
This observation being, of course, absolutely inconsequential in any way.
When we reach my bedroom, I am properly fuzzy headed and from the pink in his cheeks, so is he. We kind of hover in the doorway, looking at the navy-painted walls, the brass light fixtures. My bed is large and soft and the sexy music from the living room is a light strain in this part of the house.
My bare feet touch the edge of my soft antique rug. I feel nervous suddenly. Ellis obviously showed interest in me the other day, but is it still there now that he’s here? With me—a lady with her own house on the cusp of her fortieth birthday?
He reaches out and touches the tip of my nose. “Hi.” It’s playfuland also like he’s reading my mind somehow. Ellis knows how to relax, how to be normal. He’s been quietly confident since the second he walked into my house. It makes me relax.
I reach out and touch the hot surface of his cheek. “Hi.”
He tugs my ear, sending a zing down my body. “Hi.”
I take a step back into my room, and tap both of his hands, then pull him along with me. “Hi.”
He follows, and then runs his hand up my arm, cupping my elbow. “Hi.”
I step closer and push my thumb into his generous bottom lip. “Hi.”
His voice is less playful when he catches my thumb with his teeth. “Hi.”
We’re together in an instant, my hands in his hair, our bodies pressing into each other with an urgency that is, quite frankly, startling. Ellis kisses me with enthusiasm, putting his entire body into it, his lips warm and searching. His hands run over my back, my arms, and then cradle the back of my head. He slips his tongue into my mouth at the same time he pushes his fingers into my hair. I feel like I might burst into flames.
I didn’t think it would be this good. He kisses me like it’s his life’s singular purpose.
I slip my hands under his sweatshirt. His skin is hot to the touch, and he jerks forward when he feels my cool fingers on his lower back. But then he steps back and pulls his sweatshirt off. It leaves his hair mussed and I reach out to touch it. “You have good hair,” I murmur. Then I run my hand down the side of his face, down his neck, over his broad shoulders. He has the body of a guy who swims—lean but decidedly strong.
He pulls me in by the hips, until they bump against his and I feel exactly what he’s feeling.
“So do you,” he says as he grazes his lips on my hairline. I feel a firm tug on a lock of hair and it makes me feel crazy. Then one of his hands drags down and grazes my collarbone, dipping into the hollow of my button-down shirt. He touches the sky-blue edge of my lace bra then looks up at me, his eyes asking for permission. I nod.
He undresses me, in a hurry, so much so that he messes up the buttons and we both start laughing.
“Here, I’ve got it.” I cover his hands with mine and push them aside. He plops onto the edge of the bed and watches me as I undress. I slide my shirt off and let it drop at my feet. His eyes rove over my body with appreciation, dark and serious. And it makes me feel good as I bend over and pull my cotton shorts down, leaving my scrap of lace briefs on. I walk over to him and he leans back on his hands, head tilted back to look at me with a soft smile.
“Hi, again.” I straddle him, but he flips me over in an easy move that makes me catch my breath. He lays me down on the bed and we explore each other’s bodies with a little less urgency, and I feel drunk and heavy as his lips skim over my skin. His very assured hands run up my legs and linger near the edge of my underwear. I lift myself up ever so slightly and he drags them off, his face buried in my neck. He lets out a little groan with a laugh. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”
I laugh back, and I’m surprised by it because everything we’re doing is so absolutely hot that I couldn’t have ever imagined little comedy breaks. “Yes, this is pure charity,” I say before I suck in a breath, his fingers exploring, gentle but very, very confident. These aren’t the fumbling, eager hands of the guys I dated in my twenties—this is someone who is taking his time, who is enjoying the experience.
Like he does with everything else.
His cheekbones are flushed, his eyelids at half-mast. His golden torso is tense, and I can feel his desire like a taut string. Somethingabout seeing this beautiful guy so turned on makes me feel like the first woman to have ever done this, and it’s heady. Then he drops down to the floor and pulls me to the edge of the bed and I let out a surprised “Oh!”
He grins at me from below, one of his incisors crooked and appealing. His hair is mussed and his chest red from my hands on him. “You okay there?”
