Heather
Archer holdsmy hand as we leave the bar and is still holding it when we reach the top of the grand staircase. Under the judgmental glare of the mounted stags head, I try to pull my hand away to ostensibly brush the hair from my face, but his fingers clasped to mine, and he pulls me to a stop instead.
‘Here. Let me help.’ I can’t raise my eyes to his; instead, I stare at the hollow of histhroat, and the way his jacket sleeve bunches around his bicep as he slides his fingers through my hair. My whole body quivers, my reaction to his touch like that of a cat.
At the door, I fumble with the old-fashioned key, missing the lock twice as Archer’s arms brush my waist, setting off a tiny series of fireworks as they wrap around my middle.
‘Here, let me,’ he whispers, taking the key from my suddenly sausage fingers— they’re about as much use as far as keys and locks are concerned—the key immediately connecting with the lock.
‘Of course, you would get it in first time.’
‘Is that my cue?’ His breath is hot in my ear, the sensation repeating between my legs. I close my eyes, leaning back against the solid realness of his chest, unable to believe I’m about to do this. I’m nervous but undeterred. Especially as his fingers squeeze mine. It’s a strange kind of comforting.
‘Go on, then. I know you’re just dying to tell me how good you are at fitting things in.’
His lips find the back of my neck as he whispers, ‘Or I could just show you instead.’
One twist of the key, and the door falls open, and I hasten from the circle of his arms. The curtains are open, and there’s enough light from the moon to allow me to see my way to the bed. Not that I’m desperate to get to that part right now—I’m not about to tear off my clothes and launch myself into it—but I want to switch on the bedside lamp as an alternative to lighting up the whole room. That light would be too glaring. Too much. Too real.
As Archer’s footfalls sound softly behind me, I’m grateful that he gets that.
‘I want this more than anything,’ he whispers, his arms enveloping me again. ‘I want you more than I think you would believe. But it only works if you want this, too.’
My answer is to turn and press my nose into the triangle of skin where his top button is undone, taking a deep inhale of the scent; something spicily expensive mixed with the heady yet indefinable scent of Archer Powell. He smells like sunshine.Is that mad?Like someone who bakes in its rays regularly.
As I exhale, I bring my shaking hands to his shoulders to push his jacket off, wrestling it from his arms, in a not-so-gentle contrast to my sigh. As it falls from his fingers, I throw it on the bed. As I turn back, his lips are on mine in an instant. I’ve been kissed before, but never like this. Long, devastating kisses, the kind that turn my insides to mush, the kind that tug at my soul. Definitely the kind of kisses that steal brain cells. It’s a trade I’m willing to take as his tongue strokes mine, and I find myself moaning into his mouth. As his lips coast my jaw, he holds me tight against him, his fingers digging into my butt cheeks, the solid length of him pressed against me.
I swear I see stars; I think I forget to breathe.
‘You’re so beautiful.’ Is it a line? ‘I want you so badly.’ I can’t argue with the evidence of that, the evidence that has me whimpering into his mouth as his kisses become deeper, wetter, everything all of a sudden heat and wonder. Kisses that feel like velvet and taste like addiction.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he rasps, the soft play of his lips along my neck making my knees almost give. ‘I think I could spend the full evening and use nothing but my mouth.’
Oh, God. My body spasms, the thought of just that making me ache with a need I don’t recognise.
‘My mouth has watered for the taste of you since you slid your knickers into my hand.’
‘You should never bet against me.’ My voice is little more than a rasping sigh as our mouths tumble into another melting kiss.
‘Care to lay a bet who’ll be out of their clothes first?’ he drawls suggestively.
‘But I’ll need you to get me out of this dress—’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
He begins to turn me in his arms, a flare of panic shooting through me as I resist.
‘You first,’ I murmur, laying my hand on the centre of his chest. I see the way he looks at me, the concern. ‘Please.’ Archer wets his lips, but it feels like a prevarication. My counter move is to trace my palm down his chest and over his belt to palm his cock. I feel the tension slip from him, his head tipping back with a pained sounding exhalation.
‘You’re so hard.’
‘Yeah.’ The words are delivered in a little huff, a groan to follow as I tentatively curl my fingers around his length. His cock pulses in response, between my legs echoing the sentiment in an achingly acute surge of desire.
God, I want him—want this like I’ve wanted nothing else ever in the history of me.
‘Take your clothes off.’
‘Fuck.’ Archer’s hand is immediately behind my head, our mouths fused in a powerful kiss. ‘I thought I was supposed to be in charge.’ His voice is all rasp and husk as his teeth trail my neck. ‘But there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do when you look at me like that.’
