His eyes search my face, and I watch him process what I’ve justadmitted.
“Do you also want me to fuck you?” The question sounds sincere. Nothing like the demands Jon used to make, or the pressure that always came with his expectations.
“I want a memory of being with a man who isn’t my douchebag ex.” That’s the only part of the truth I’m willing to share right now. “I want to know it can be different.”
“A palette cleanser?” It sounds like he’s testing the words.
“Is that a problem?”
He studies me for a long moment, then shakes his head decisively. His hands come up to cup my face the way they did before, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a reverence that makes my throat tight.
I pull back. “No more kissing on the mouth.”
His eyebrows rise. “Like that hooker movie?”
“Did you just call me a hooker?”
“No, I?—”
I place a finger over his lips and feel him inhale sharply at the contact.
“This is notPretty Woman, but no kissing on the mouth, Jeremy. And no...” I bite down on my lower lip, forcing myself to say the thing that makes me feel small and broken. “I don’t like it rough.”
The heat remains in his dark eyes, but it’s tempered now with an understanding that makes my eyes sting.
“Then I’ll worship you gently,” he says simply.
Before I can respond, he lifts me into his arms. I should protest. The other night notwithstanding, I’m not some fainting damsel who needs to be carried. But his arms are solid and sure. And the way he holds me—like I’m precious to him—makes me forget all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
He carries me into the villa, past the living room where we watchedMission Impossibleand traded insults, and into the primary bedroom, which I haven’t seen before. It’s a larger versionof my room, with crisp white sheets and a view of the lagoon through floor-to-ceiling windows. The bed seems massive, and he pulls back the cover and sheet, then lays me on it like I’m made of glass.
“Tell me what you want.” It sounds like a command, but he doesn’t move to touch me again. He’s giving me control, a gift Jon never thought to bestow.
“I want...” I trail off, not sure how to articulate the tangled mess of need and fear churning in my stomach.
He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. “How about I start, and you tell me if you want me to stop?”
I nod.
He moves onto his hands and knees above me and presses his lips to my collarbone, nearly grazing the neckline of my sundress. My whole body arches toward him involuntarily at the featherlight touch.
“Lips are off limits.” I hear the humor in his tone. “Other kissing okay?”
“Yes.” The word comes out in a whisper.
He trails kisses down my arm, pausing at the inside of my elbow, the pulse point of my wrist, and each fingertip. By the time he reaches my palm, I’m trembling.
“Still okay?”
“Jeremy.” His name is a plea. “Stop asking and just?—”
He silences me by pressing his mouth to my hip bone through the thin fabric of my dress. I gasp, and feel him smile against me.
“You were saying?”
“You’re annoying.”
“I know.”
