But for now, she would just give him everything else, simply everything she had to offer.
She unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his muscles, and she trembled with desire.
He was so beautiful. Every hard-cut line of his body was now more than just a fantasy. He was reality. A beautiful fantasy made masculine flesh before her, and she could scarcely believe the gift of him.
She pressed her palm to the center of his chest, moved her fingertips over that rough hair and hot skin.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Lydia,” he said. She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “You good?”
“I’m better than good,” she said.
“Perfect.”
And that was when she found herself stripped of that white dress. When she found herself standing nearly naked before him, only covered by her insubstantial white bra and cotton underwear. It was hardly the outfit she would’ve chosen forlosing her virginity, had she planned ahead. But he didn’t seem to mind at all. “I always knew that you were some special kind of beautiful. Like something from another world. The kind of sweet, the kind of generous that I didn’t think existed. But I didn’t guess.... You’re a damned miracle, Lydia Clay.”
His words were like balm for her soul. Like a magical gift. Because if weird Lydia Clay could be a miracle to Remington Lane, then maybe all her weirdness was okay after all. Maybe it was a gift.
He made her feel as if everything she’d ever done meant something in a way she hadn’t been certain it did before.
Maybe she shouldn’t need a few words of affirmation from the man who held her in his arms, but it was a beautiful thing that she had it.
She hadn’t been waiting for it, not really.
She would never let it go now.
He lowered her slowly onto the bed, kissed her neck, down her collarbone, to the plump curve of her breast, the edge of her lace bra cup.
“Are you wet now, Lydia?” he growled, his lips against her skin.
She nearly flew off the mattress. “Yes,” she whispered. “Not from the shower.”
He growled against her skin, and her internal muscles clenched tight with need.
Sex as a fantasy was one thing. It was gauzy and sweet in her mind. It felt good, but in an impressionistic way. Out of focus dabs of pleasure coming together to create a half-imagined scene. This was not that.
It was sharp. In great, detailed focus. Every pinpoint of desire was fully realized. Drawn in exquisite detail.
The way his lips touched her skin, his tongue tracing shapes there.
The way his hands moved over her body, the weight of him as he settled over the top of her, the heat of his mouth.
She was so aware of the shift of fabric as he unhooked her bra. How rough his jeans were against her thighs. And all of it was good. Brilliant, wonderful.
He kissed a line straight to her nipple, sucked it deep into his mouth, the sound of satisfaction on his lips stoking the fires of desire deep within her.
Then he moved to her other breast, the attention he lavished upon her decadent, glorious. She had always considered herself a practical girl. This was not practical. It was not simply about maintenance. It was simply extra.
It was the joy and ecstasy of being human in a way that she had never quite experienced before. It was connection.
Was it the same for him?
She hoped it was. She wished it could be. So much. Down to the depths of her soul, that was what she wanted.
He kissed his way down her body to the waistband of her panties. He pulled them down, and she didn’t even have time to be embarrassed. He dragged them away from her legs, cast them on the floor, and then he was kissing her, right at the tender part of her inner thigh.
And then higher still.
