“You, inside me.”
He tips his head backward. “You’re killing me, woman!”
“What’s the matter? Didn’t you say this tree house was as safe as it gets?”
“I did and it is.”
“Then what’s the issue?” I ask again.
“Protection is the issue, Gigi.” He spreads his hands. “I won’t deny I was hoping we’ll make love again. But I didn’t expect it to happen this morning, in this tree house.”
Ah.“You don’t have a condom on you.”
“Any chance you do?”
“Nope.”
We stare at each other.
“Are you clean?” I ask.
For a split second, he looks like he doesn’t catch my drift, then the little lines around his eyes disappear. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Are you sure?”
“I haven’t had sex in half a year,” he says. “No time for dating. But I did get my annual health checkup and blood work last month. All clear.”
“Good.”
“What about you?”
“No sex since January,” I inform him. “No checkups as recent as yours, but if I had an STD, I’d have symptoms by now.”
Another silent staring session follows.
“Besides,” I add. “I had my period last week, which means you can’t knock me up at this point in my cycle.”
I consider educating him on how female fertility nose-dives between the ages twenty and thirty, and that getting me pregnant even at peak ovulation is far from guaranteed now. But instead, I peel off my T-shirt together with the bra.
Henri gawks at my bared breasts. “They’re fuller now than ten years ago.” He lifts his dark, burning gaze to meet mine. “Absolutely. Fucking. Perfect.”
When he bends down and sucks a nipple into his mouth, my lips part. My eyelids come down. I plunge my hands back into his hair and let out a long, throaty sigh of relief.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Henri’s beard grazes over my engorged, sensitized nipple and sends shivers down my spine.
“Do you still enjoy that?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
“It used to be just stubble,” I say with a gasp. “The beard is a whole new feel. I love it!”
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, urging him to continue. He does, alternating between breasts—mouth on one, hand on the other. His lips still around my left breast, he slides a hand between our bodies and applies pressure to my pubis, right where I needed it. And then he begins to rub that spot through the fabric of my jeans. The pressure and the friction against my clit combined with his mouth suckling my nipple drive me wild with desire. My core is clenching for him, my clit is throbbing. I moan, moving my hips to meet his touch.
“Keep going,” I whisper breathlessly. “Don’t stop!”
The need to touch him more intimately becomes irresistible. My hand travels down his body, feeling every contour and muscle beneath his T-shirt. When I reach his crotch, I grab his cock through his pants, reveling in his shape and hardnessbeneath the denim. His manhood stirs against my palm, reacting to my touch.
“Do you still enjoy that?” I whisper huskily, mirroring his earlier question.
