“If you don’t, we’re going to have a harder version of the conversation we had in the hallway after you went to Peachwood without telling me. I don’t want the harder version. I want an easier one next time.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
She picks up my glass, finishes what’s in it, and sets it down empty.
“Come to bed.”
“Soon.”
“Now.”
I follow her.
She’s already sitting against the headboard when I come through the door. She changed while I was locking the study. One of my shirts, the one she claimed and never gave back. The top three buttons undone. Her hair loose across her shoulders.
She watches me cross the room. I sit on the edge of the mattress.
She reaches out and takes the hem of my shirt in both hands. Pulls it over my head. Slowly. She folds it and sets it on the nightstand, and the careful attention of that small gesture undoes something in me.
Her hand goes flat on my chest. Warm. Warmer than the last time. The difference isn’t subtle anymore.
“Lie back,” she says.
I lie back. My pulse is already climbing.
She moves over me. Slow. The shirt rides up her thighs as she settles her knees on either side of my hips. Her hair falls forward and brushes my chest and the contact goes through me like a current.
“You’re not going to be in your study,” she says. “You’re not going to be three moves ahead. You’re going to be here. With me.”
“I’m already here.” My voice is rougher than I expected.
Her hand slides from my chest to my jaw. She holds my face and leans down and kisses me. Unhurried. Her mouth tastes like whiskey and underneath it, like her. My hands find her hips through the fabric and pull her down against me because I need her closer and the four inches between us is too much.
She smiles against my mouth. “There you are.”
She kisses me until my hands are in her hair and I’m pulling her closer and the bond between us is open and full. Every place her body touches mine is a point of heat I can’t think past.
She pushes herself upright. She unbuttons the remaining buttons one at a time. Leaves the shirt on her shoulders. Open. I watch the fabric part and my hands tighten on her thighs.
I want to put my mouth on every inch of her and she’s making me wait.
She takes me inside her slowly. Watching my face. The sound I make isn’t controlled and I don’t try to control it.
“Eyes,” she says.
I open them. I didn’t realize I’d closed them.
She moves. The pace is hers. Slow and deliberate. I let her set it.
What reaches me through her is heat and intention.
She leans forward. Her lips an inch from my ear.
“I can feel it,” she says. “What you’re carrying. I can’t see the shape. I can feel what it costs you.”
