But Reid keeps me close, kisses me once before he speaks again.
“Come home with me.”
Chapter 13
No self-respecting New Yorker PDAs on the subway, and Reid and I manage—barely, it feels to me—to stay self-respecting.
But as soon as we’re up the steps from the Herald Square station, Reid touches me again, taking my hand and keeping me close to his side as we navigate the not-yet-crowded sidewalks all the way to his apartment building, a nondescript brick mid-rise in Murray Hill, somewhat tired on the outside but updated with bland, modern renovations in the lobby. On any other morning, on any other day, I’d ask more than twenty questions about it all:How’d you pick this? Do you know your neighbors? How long does it take you to get to work? Where’s your dry cleaner?This morning, though, my head is full of that kiss, my hand is full of Reid’s, and all I want is to finish what we started.
As soon as the door to his apartment is closing behind us, I let him know it, turning to face him, tipping my head up for another kiss, and the best thing is that he doesn’t leave any doubt that he’s been wanting it, too, that he stood beside me on that train and felt every single passing touch of my body against his. He bends, his hands in my hair, releasing all the still-fresh shampoo scent he missed so much, and the noise that comes from his chest as he kisses me is guttural, impatient.
Hot.
“You don’t want the tour?” he says when he pulls his lips from mine to take a breath, his chin ducking immediately to put his lips somewhere new, on the soft skin of my neck.
“Later I want the tour.” I gasp at the way he’s tasting me, his tongue tracing up that long column. “I’ll ask you so many questions,” I warn him.
“It’s quite boring,” he warns, kissing the corner of my mouth first, before he gives me his lips, his tongue.
“God, say that again,” I say, almost a moan, and then realize I don’t want to explain thequitething, not when I could keep my mouth busy in other ways. “Never mind,” I murmur hastily. “Nothing about you is boring.”
He presses me against the wall by his front door, his hands at my waist and his mouth hungry on mine. We stay that way for so long, long enough that I push his jacket off his shoulders, long enough that he does the same to me, long enough that we both toe off our shoes, kicking them sloppily out of the way.
“Meg.” His voice is gruff, and all of a sudden I realize I’ve gripped the firm, ropy length of his forearms; I’m squeezing there to hold myself steady while we devour each other, and for the first time I feel a rough texture beneath one of my palms.
“Oh,” I say, pulling my hand away. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” He takes my hands in his and squeezes gently. “Touch me. Anywhere you want.”
“Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head. “Not right now.” He leans in, breathes against the skin of my neck. “Nothing hurts right now. I was going to ask if you wanted to go—
“Yes, to bed. That’s where I want to go.”
He leans back to look at me, and this time when heswoonshesI lift my hand to his face and set my thumb to that curving line on his cheek, the one Iknow, IknowI’ll be able to draw later.
“I’m trying it your way,” I breathe, moving my thumb so I can lean in and press my mouth to that curve, so I can mimic it with my body, shaping myself to him. “Direct.”
“I like it.” He moves to pull me away from the wall; then he wraps his arms around my waist, lifts me off my feet, and carries me into his bedroom, never taking his mouth from mine.
And at first—oh, at first, I like it, too. I like it so much that I’m half-frantic with it. I don’t take in any details of the space he’s brought me to, because my eyes are busy on the parts of his body I reveal as I strip off his clothes—his stomach flat and ridged with muscle, a ladder of gorgeous, organized strength leading up to the heaven of his broad, smooth chest, broader even still by the way the muscles of his swimmer’s back fan out. I spread my hands over his shoulders, feel the textures of his skin with a sort of buzzing electricity in my fingertips; I hear the way Reid’s breath catches and quickens when I lean in to taste the clean-smelling skin of his neck. I’m so direct I can hardly wait, pulling him toward me as I back my way to the bed, barely pausing to let him get his hands on the hem of my dress, annoyed when getting it over my head means we have to stop kissing, the only solace the way Reid’s hands feel on new parts of my bare skin—my waist, my rib cage, my shoulder blades. I reach behind me and unclasp my bra, delighting in the noise of pleasure Reid makes, the reverent, desperate way he whispers, “Jesus,” when I lie back on his bed.
But then—with our clothes mostly off and him on top of me, with my hips moving up in small, rhythmic pulses against the hard length between his legs—I suddenly feel a rolling, unwelcome crest of nervousness, a hiccup in my newfound directness that makes the rhythm break awkwardly, a stutter-stop I hope he doesn’t notice. It’s so good with him already, nothing I’ve ever felt with anyone else, his heat and the way he kisses me soft but holds me strong.
But it’s started good before, and then I—
“Meg,” Reid whispers softly, right against the shell of my ear. “Do you want to stop?”
“No!” It’s too loud in the quiet room, my hands gripping at his hips involuntarily, my eyes squeezing closed at the threat of impending confrontation over this.
“I want to keep going,” I say, more softly now, nuzzling at his jaw, and he makes a low, humming noise against my skin, the sound a metronome for that beat I skipped, and I pulse my hips again.
But he presses up on his arms, moving his hard length away and looking down at me. “We can slow down.”
I want to whimper without his heat, but before I can get the sound out he picks up one hand from where he’s had it pressed against the mattress beside my head. He strokes his fingers slowly, carefully, right down the center line between my breasts, where my heart flutters beneath the skin.
“You seem nervous.”
