The hotel suite has a huge four-poster bed, and he carries me across the carpeted floor before setting me gently on my feet.
“Turn around.”
I do, and he works the zipper down on my dress.It falls off, landing in a pool at my feet.When I turn back to him, his hungry gaze runs over me from my heels to my lace panties and bra.
He groans as he lays me down on the cool sheets, my hair splaying around my head.
“I told myself I forgot how you taste.”
“You have a short memory,” I breathe.
Clay reaches for the buttons on his shirt, unfastening them one at a time with huge hands.His gaze never leaves mine.
I shift up onto my elbows, breathless at the sight of him.He’s a god, strong and eternal, but the emotion in his eyes says he’s a man.He strips off his shirt, revealing the planes and muscles that make me hot for him.The ink that tells stories so his lips don’t have to.
He takes his time.
Clay starts with my lips, kissing me until they’re swollen.
My throat is next, my collarbone and the tops of my breasts.It’s as if he needs to reassure himself I’m real.
He tugs my bra down under my breasts, pushing them up.Then he fists one hand in my hair as he lowers himself over me.He worships me, licking and sucking one nipple before moving to the other, holding me in place.
I try to reach for him, but he pins my hands over my head.It’s both gentle and feral at once.
No man has ever touched me like this.
When his hand slides down my stomach under the lace of my panties, I arch against his touch.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing where I’m already soaked.
He slips a finger inside me, filling me in a way that’s achingly familiar.He touches me until I’m crying out around him, then he bends his mouth to me.
What feels so good is that he’s here with me, body and soul.
Present.
Completely.
Every inch of intention and commitment steals my breath.It’s as if he’s making up for months of questions and regrets.
If I could speak, I’d tell him he’s more than accomplished it.
I reach for his pants and work them off his lean hips.He’s hard and thick, arched up toward his muscled abs.
I throb.
I’m actually pulsing with want, shaking with the need to be connected with him like this.
“Clay,” I whisper, and his hooded gaze finds mine.“Hurry.”
“I don’t want to rush this.”He’s still tracing a finger up the inside of my thigh.It’s exploratory, teasing, as if he hasn’t already touched the deepest parts of me.
“Please.”
He stills for a moment.
Then he grabs me under the knees and lifts my hips up to meet him.
