Elliot steps closer and lifts her hands to my chest, hesitating before she nudges my jacket off my shoulders. My tie goes next. Her fingers tremble just slightly as they find the first button of my shirt. She looks up at me, checking in.
I nod.
She exhales and starts unbuttoning it slowly, one button at a time. I stay perfectly still, watching her concentrate like this is the most important task she has ever been given. I try, unsuccessfully, not to think about how long it has been since anyone undressed me like this. I shove the thought away. Elliot is the only woman I will allow space in my mind.
When my shirt hits the floor, she seems to forget her nervesentirely. Her hands go straight to my belt, moving with sudden confidence. She starts on my pants like a kid attacking wrapping paper on Christmas morning.
She fumbles with the zipper and lets out a small, frustrated grunt.
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Eager?”
Her cheeks flush pink, but she looks up at me anyway, nodding once, unapologetic as she pushes my pants down.
That does me in.
I reach for her dress, my hands skimming the smooth black fabric as I hunt for the zipper. I don’t find it anywhere on the back. “Where is it?”
“Side,” she says.
I find it and tug gently. Nothing happens. I try again, more carefully, my oversized fingers suddenly incapable of fine motor skills.
Come on.
“Here,” she says, reaching for it. “Let me.”
“I’ve got it,” I insist, stubborn and entirely wrong.
I lean in at the exact moment she looks up and our heads knock together.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out at the same time.
We both stumble back, rubbing our foreheads.
“The zipper sticks,” she says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Maybe you should do it,” I tell her. “Unless you want me to tear it off you like an absolute animal.”
Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect O, and then she very deliberately turns back to the zipper. She makes quick work of it. The dress slips from her shoulders and she steps out of it, leaving it pooled on the floor between us.
And I forget how to breathe.
Fuck.
I stare at her without even trying to hide it. She stands there in a black bra, shockingly pink panties and nylon stockings and my brain short circuits trying to decide where to look first. The way her bra hugs her perky breasts. The small mole just above her left hip that I already know I am going to be obsessed with. Her strong thighs that make my hands itch to touch her. And those panties. That ridiculous, vivid shade of pink is going to live rent-free in my head forever.
She crosses one arm over her stomach, suddenly shy. Maybe she is trying to hide the faint stretch marks there. I want to tell her not to. I want to tell her exactly what her body does to me, what every part of her does to me. But the words feel too big, too honest, and I am afraid they might scare her off.
“You’re stunning,” I tell her instead.
The smile that she gives me is one of disbelief. She has no idea how beautiful she is.
“Come here.” I hold my hand out to her and she closes the distance. The moment she is in my arms, everything else fades. Her hands slide up around my neck and it feels like every nerve ending I have lights up at once. We kiss slowly, then again, then again, unhurried and curious, learning the shape of each other’s mouths while our bodies press close, skin against skin.
I want to pick her up and toss her on the bed. To kneel at her altar, strip off those panties and bury my face between her thighs. But even with the strides I’ve made with physio, kneeling is still out of the question. Instead I back us toward the bed and sit, guiding her down onto my lap. She fits perfectly.
The kisses become more frenzied, more urgent. Elliot rocks her hips against me, her quiet moans filling the room. My hands grip her waist, stilling her.
