“Oh, Ripley,” he says reverently in his scratchiest morning-after voice. “Look at you.” He splays a hand around her side to tuck his thumb under the lace of her bralette, strokes like they have nothing but world and time.
His admiration feels like a lot all at once. “You make a B cup sound like a Powerball jackpot,” she says shakily.
“Don’t do that, my darling.” His eyes flick up to hers, his smile full of so much compassion and tenderness, her breathing stutters. “You see beauty in everything but yourself. Let me see thebeauty in you.” He easily pulls her astride his lap and settles her arms around his neck.
He brings her hair over her shoulders, arranges it across her chest. His hands make her forget she has an unspeakable farmer’s tan as they draw her bra straps down. His thumbs ease her out of the slippery, stretchy cups so he can feather across her nipples, shade them in as she gasps, add crosshatching that makes her ache.
“Can I?” he whispers before learning her with his mouth. He moves so slowly, she’s not sure if time has stopped altogether.
“I want to see you,” she breathes when she can’t take it any longer. “I want your clothes off, I want my clothes off, I want you in my hand and in my mouth and inside menow,James. Now.”
She can feel his lips making a double curve against her clavicle.
“Patience, Ripley,” he says, so low and slow that her body clenches on a spasm of unbearable anticipation. He sounds amused, but would an unaffected man flip her to her back and move his big body over her quite that quickly? Would he bring her fingers to his buttons, watch as she undid them, then toss his shirt to the floor with his glasses still in the pocket?
Ripley doesn’t think so.
Still, when he comes down, he holds himself back, hovering, his eyes a serious shade of blue. His chest is wider than she imagined, with a triangle of dark hair in the center. His arms she’s seen before, but not like this—not straining above her, shoulders defined by broad strokes of muscle that rise with his effort. Browned neck, lighter chest, dark nipples. Painfully beautiful.
“We can still stop,” he says, sounding very much like he does not want to stop. “If we don’t go any further, we can still check theNobox on the conflict-of-interest declaration. If we ever need to.”
She smiles and traces the ladder of his abs to see them jump. “No real world,” she says. “Not allowed.”
“I want to keep you safe, Ripley,” he whispers.
“I know,” she says, cupping his face in her hand, trying to stroke his soul through his skin. “But this is the time we have. Now, James.”
He groans, letting his weight down, finally letting her feel the good length of him between her legs, the almost involuntary buck of his hips, his hot breath against her neck. He smells like grass and lemons, like discovery, like a hot wind and a cold drink in summer. The pressure inside her is wound so tight, and he feels so good. So good. If she moved against him like this, if he would put firmer pressure rightthere—
“Pants stay on,” he gasps out, easing himself away exactly where she wants more. It’s all she can do not to keen her disappointment.
“They do?” She looks down at his trousers and her skirt. They’re both wretchedly sturdy.
He gives a breathless laugh, laying hot, seeking kisses from her ear down her neck and toward her breasts. “Knickers, Ripley. Knickers stay on. Trousers come off.”
“Now?” she asks hopefully. “And then knickers soon?”
“Stop tormenting me,” he commands. “I need them on. I might get carried away without them.”
“Do you often get carried away?” She hopes the answer is yes.
“No,” he says darkly, and that’s so much better thanyesthat she can’t help making a little sound. “Patience, Ripley,” he repeats, but he pinches her nipple while he says it, and she cries out again.
He takes his time, making her wait long enough that when he kneels and eases her skirt down over her hips, the slide of fabric on skin makes her arch and burn, the trace of his shaking fingerunder the lace of her underwear damn near pushing her over the edge. He would be like this if he were inside her—patiently, methodically taking her apart. Seeing her with an artist’s uncompromising eye, like she’s a series of portraits:Unkissed. Undressed. Undone.
She wants to undo his trousers, but her fingers are no good, fumbling the incomprehensible fastenings until he guides her hands away. “Hooks,” he explains, letting them fall open. “My tailor loves them.”
“Wow,” she says. His very short boxers are navy with white trim, one hundred percent uptight. His erection is ruining any lines his tailor tried to achieve. His thighs are bunched with restraint, the dragon at the apex of his right leg shifting its spread wings above his long, deeply carved scar.
“Can I?” she asks, reaching out.
He nods once, his expression harsh with hunger and pleasure as she thumbs the little dragon.
She doesn’t have to ask why he got it—the meaning isn’t subtle. Everything he loved, everything he lost. Instead, she asks, “How old were you?”
“Eighteen. And very, very drunk. Afterward, the artist asked if the design was original, then offered me a job. I vomited on his shoes.”
“You’re never easy on yourself, are you?”
