His gaze softened, and he closed the distance between us until his feet met mine. Neither of us wore shoes. They’d been discarded before the checkers and cherry pie, and there was something oddly thrilling about our bare toes touching.
He’d showered and changed after our work that afternoon, his work top replaced by a T-shirt. His hands went to the hem. With one swift motion, he threw it onto the floor next to mine. His jeans followed, leaving him in a pair of black boxer briefs.
“Now we’re even,” he said.
His hands cupped my face, his head lowering, his lips meeting mine. There was something different about this kiss. It was rushed and hard, full of passion and frenzy, but also nervous and careful. Our tongues clashed, and my hands came up to cover his.
Our bodies were touching now, his height and build shadowing mine, one of his hands falling to grip my hip.
The back of my legs hit the bed, and I realized we’d been moving toward it, his lips working their magic on mine, clouding my thoughts. My entire body burned, a roaring inferno of raw nerves and sensation.
Heathcliff’s hand found my back, his fingers undoing the clasp of my bra. It fell open, and he worked the straps down my arms, his lips never leaving mine, as if he knew baring my breasts for the first time would be embarrassing for me.
“Last chance,” Heathcliff murmured against my lips, pulling away so that he was looking down into my face. “Last chance to say no.”
In response, my hands fell to his waist, my fingers tugging at his briefs. My hands shook, and he helped me, his hands joining mine as he stepped free of the underwear. I couldn’t make myself look past his chest, my eyes locked on the muscles there.
Gently, he pushed me down onto the bed, rolling over just long enough to tear open the condom he’d thrown onto the comforter. Then his hands were on my waist, working my panties down past my hips and knees until I could kick them free.
Once again, his lips met mine, his hands roaming my body, pausing at my breasts before dropping lower.
“It’s okay to touch me,” he breathed against my mouth.
Embarrassing heat infused my face, my hands coming up to grasp his shoulders before moving lower, my fingers gliding over his biceps to his chest and down his stomach before stopping at his hips.
He was touching me now in places no one had ever touched, and I squirmed, gasping against his mouth.
“That’s it,” he breathed.
Sensation racked me, and my body rose up off of the bed. His tongue tangled with mine, growing more demanding as my body pressed against his hand. His fingers picked up speed, and I cried out.
“It’s too much,” I whimpered, my lips pulling away from his.
“It just feels that way,” he promised, his eyes on mine. “Just wait.”
And then it hit me, a tidal wave of sensation that had my fingers digging into his waist, my breath catching.
Heathcliff shifted, his weight settling between my thighs, using the indescribable moment to push inside of me.
I tensed, and his hand slid up to my cheek, cupping it, his eyes capturing mine. “Give it time. If we were in a hurry this wouldn’t work.”
It was such an odd sensation being joined with someone, his body easing into my body, warm and uncomfortable at first, like a large hand trying to squeeze into a too small glove.
“It hurts,” I admitted.
He inhaled, his bare chest pressing against mine, his jaw tensed, and I knew he was holding himself back. “You tell me when you’re ready,” he whispered.
His lips fell on mine once more, our mouths and tongues dancing, his hands cradling my face before sliding into my wild, tangled hair. My hands skimmed his sides and back, my fingers gliding over ribs and corded muscle. The kiss deepened, and my body responded, his hips pressing further into mine as I writhed beneath him.
Pleasure and pain. That’s exactly how I’d describe my first clumsy attempt at lovemaking. Heathcliff took it slow, never forcing me into a rhythm I wasn’t comfortable with, his moans low against my ear with each agonizingly beautiful, yet painful inch forward.
His head rose, his damp forehead resting against mine, his breath fanning my face. He was making this about me, and the sudden realization slammed into me hard, firing my blood.
Inhaling sharply, my almost murmured, “This isn’t going to work” came out as, “I’m ready.”
He exhaled shakily, one of his hands falling to grip my bare hip, his body slowly retreating from mine only to return to it, one thrust after another, each one easier than the last. At first, it wasn’t magic, it was simply skin against stretched skin, painful and uneasy, wet and uncoordinated. We kept trading laughter and gasps, from humor to cover the embarrassment to winded pants from unexpected pleasure.
I can’t say exactly when it changed from that to something more, but it did.
He’d pulled himself up onto his arms—his biceps bulging, his forehead creased, the new angle applying pressure where there hadn’t been any before—and I gasped, my lips parting. The pain was still there, but there was also something more.