My lips move across his cheek and down, so I can tuck my nose into his neck, under his ear, breathing in the scent of his cologne. It’s a woodsy smell, like cedar. And then there’s the smell ofhim.It’s just him—his skin, or something. Fuck, it’s amazing. I want to buy it in bottles and spray it all over my sheets.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” I press my mouth to the soft skin of his neck, sliding my tongue out to taste him, biting gently. He sucks in a ragged breath, his pulse quickening against my lips.
I’m trying to be patient, but it’s not working. My hands snake their way down again, twisting in the hem of his shirt. When I give it a little tug, he raises his arms obediently, watching me take in every inch of his gorgeous body with thirsty eyes as I slip it over his head.
Holy hell. I can’t stop looking at him. He has such a man’s body; not flawless or overly chiseled, but real and solid and firm. My fantasy self spent a lot of time constructing a mental image of what was under his clothes, but what a joke that was. I couldn’t have imagined the scar down the side of his stomach, a tiny puckered line that I trail my fingertip over with a smile. I couldn’t have imagined the way the dark hair on his chest, peppered with a few grays, spans from one nipple to the other and tapers down to his waistband. And I couldn’t have imagined the gentle dip in his lower back, which I discover as I slide my palms around his waist and down over his hot skin, skating onto the curve of his firm, denim-clad ass.
A small moan escapes his mouth as I lean in to kiss his strong shoulders. The shoulders I’ve looked at over and over again, the ones that almost made me lose the plot when he injured himself at the ice-rink. I’m breathing heavily as I mold my hand to the hard swell of muscle.
“Michael, God… you’re so perfect.”
“I’m not perfect,” he mumbles, but I ignore him.
“You’re gorgeous.” My lips graze his neck, fingers stroking his cheek, his beard. I’m delirious with the thought that this is actually happening, trying not to smother him with my hands. “I could touch you forever.” My mouth is running away from me but I don’t care.
His fingertips curl tighter into my waist, like he’s holding on for dear life. “I’d like that,” he murmurs in response, and fireworks burst inside my chest.
I shuffle back on the bed and he crawls up beside me, positioning himself against my side, tucking his body in against mine. His kisses are lingering and lazy, like we have all the time in the world, but when I feel his tongue slide over mine, my body lights up like the Rockefeller tree. My hands reach for his belt buckle again, and again he catches them, this time chuckling against my lips.
“Not yet. You need to remove some clothes now.”
He kisses me with teasing strokes of his tongue as he slides his fingertip under the hem of my sweater, nudging it up. I’m electric, heat. Every part of me is on fire, feeling like I’m about to boil over just from the way he’s slowly peeling my clothes off. Each brush of his fingertips over my skin leaves a trail of hot embers in its wake. I’m not sure how I haven’t self-combusted yet.
“Michael,” I plead, urging him to hurry up, to strip me and take me.
But he just shakes his head as he pulls my sweater off, tossing it aside. He lets out a little sigh as he gazes at me, dipping down to press a kiss in the valley between my breasts. He’s painstakingly slow as he removes my bra, my jeans—as if he’s unwrapping a precious gift. Then he runs his eyes up and down my frame, drinking me in, and self-consciousness crawls up my spine. He’s firm and sculpted; a model of physical strength. I’m soft curves and squishy bits. Why haven’t I spent more—I mean,any—time in the gym?
But he doesn’t care. It’s obvious in the way he drags his nose over my shoulder, along my collarbone, inhaling my scent, exhaling his satisfaction. His hands slide down the sides of my breasts, over my stomach, palms flat as they smooth across my skin, and I realize I’m being savored, treasured. And just like that, I’ve never felt more beautiful.
“Alex…” His voice is husky, like it’s a chore to speak. “You’re all I’ve wanted for so long. I—fuck.” He climbs on top of me now, caging me inside his arms as he stares down at me. But he’s not touching me at all and I’m dying.
I slide my hands onto his butt and pull him down between my parted legs. His weight settles over me—heavy, solid, pressing me into the mattress—and I sigh at the feeling of his warm skin against mine, his bulk pinning me to the spot. I’m not small, but he’s bigger than any guy I’ve ever been in bed with—a solid wall of muscle and man. Beneath him I feel almost delicate, and this delights me.
“Am I too heavy? I don’t want—”
“You’re fucking perfect,” I breathe. “You’re all I want.”
His eyes crinkle into a smile, then his lips are on mine, taking my mouth in a hard, passionate kiss. His hands are shaking as he lowers them to undo his belt buckle, and when I slip my greedy hands inside and take hold of him, he groans, pressing himself against my palm. I can’t believe I’m finally touching him and—fuck—I am not disappointed. That’s another thing my fantasy self could never have adequately imagined: the thickness of him, the firm and silky feeling of him, the way he grows even harder in my hand.
Every stroke draws a low growl from his throat, an involuntary thrust from his hips, until he reaches for my hand and pulls it off him. “Stop. Or this will all be over right now.”
I giggle, dizzy with the knowledge that I’m making him as crazy as he’s making me. I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment, though, because my next plan was to use my mouth.
He stands and shucks his jeans, his boxer-briefs, and I gape at him naked before me. Fucking hell. He’sglorious. I have the brief thought that he’s ruined me, now; I’ll never be able to look at another man with desire. But I don’t care. I don’t want another man again.
He points to my underwear with a sexy grin. “Off. Now.” His tone has a bossy edge to it and I give a huff of arousal as I kick my panties off.
He lies back beside me and when his hand snakes down below my waist, I quiver against him.
“Oh God, Alex,” he murmurs as his fingers slide over the wet heat between my thighs.
He kisses me roughly, his fingers moving over me in slow, deliberate strokes, dipping inside, teasing. It only takes a few seconds of this for me to know that sex with him is going to be better than anything I’ve had before. This isn’t some sloppy fumble with one eye on the TV, some half-hearted prod below the waist before he can move onto the good stuff. But then, he’s not some twenty-something guy I met at the pub. He’s aman—a man who’s been married and had a kid and come out the other side, wiser for it. He’s taking his time, relishing the way my body responds, eager to learn the things I like. And it’s working.
I arch into his hand, begging for more with my hips, and I feel him smile against my mouth. He’s taunting me, holding off, and impatience tears through me.
“Michael,” I whine. “You’re killing me.”
