“A cat with claws,” he murmured, and stood up with her in his arms. She breathed in the clean scent of his hair as he carried her up the stairs. Impressively, he managed to keep kissing her without walking them into any walls. His house was far too big for one person. It took so long to get to his bedroom that he was lucky he was sexy or the mood might have waned.
Her lashes fluttered open when his weight pressed her into a gorgeously plushy mattress. The silk dress was bunched around her hips. She could feel the coolness of the bedcover beneath her lower back and thighs. Richard leant on one arm, propping his body above hers. Slowly, he slid his free hand up her thigh, following the curves of her hip and waist. He looked down, his eyes intent as he watched the movement of his fingers. Catching hold of the folds of silk, he slid the dress up, bunching it in his hand. Her breath quickening, she arched her back, and he pulled it carefully over her head. She heard the crack of static from her hair as it tugged at the loosened strands.
His face was so close that she could only focus on one distinct feature at a time. Eyes, the black lashes lowered. The sharp aquiline plane of his nose. His lips, parted and a little thin. Very gently, still focused on the touch of their skin, he laid his palm on her midriff, spreading his fingers wide. He lowered his head and kissed her tummy, right in the hollow between her ribs.
She was slightly self-conscious about her stomach. She didn’t have the DNA or the will power for visible abs. Generally, she preferred men to pick a direction—up or down—and not linger in the middle region. It was so obvious from Richard’s expression that he found her completely and unconditionally attractive that she let out a slow breath and relaxed in his arms.
He tugged her legs upward, bending her knees, and kissed the inside of her thigh. His mouth came down to blow warm breath against her expensive knickers—and she gave herself a mental high-five for leaving the Spanx at home again. She didn’t need any Bridget Jones-esque comedy for their first time together.
Raising her hips, she wiggled the underwear down her legs and sent it flying with a careless flick of her foot. Their hands met on his belt buckle. She grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling and happy, and he touched the pad of his thumb to her lower lip.
When his body came down on hers again, both of them shivering at the slide of bare skin, she wrapped her arms around his back in a tight hug.
He lifted his head to look at her. “Okay?” His voice was rough and raspy.
In answer, she slid her toes up the back of his thigh, lifted her hips and pointedly arched an eyebrow.
His grin flashed as he adjusted his weight, and his head lowered to her neck.
Where she had expected a rush of blurred sensations, she received lingering clarity, as if the world had come into focused high-definition. She felt every moment of the hours that followed: the brush of his hair against intimate flesh, the warm suction of his mouth on her neck and her breasts, his soft kiss on the sensitive inner flesh of her upper arm when she reached back to the headboard, his hands—everywhere, it seemed.
There was one moment when they tried to roll to a different position and he kind of got trapped between her breasts, which was super awkward, but, she informed him kindly, could have been sexy if she’d been flat-chested and he’d been flexible.
It was worth it for the novelty of seeing him dissolved into laughter.
She had imagined Richard as a selfish lover, and she was wrong. He demanded, but he gave. He seemed fascinated, enthralled by her, which in turn made her feel intensely desirable. He made her feel far more beautiful than any couture gown or luxury cosmetic could ever do. It was a real beauty—messy, sweaty, intense. And it left her reeling.
*
Much later, they took a bath. Or rather, Lainie took a bath. Richard hijacked it, and didn’t even have the decency to sit behind her so she could prop herself against his chest.
“How come you get my cosy self for a cushion, and I have to lean against cold marble?” She threaded playful fingers through his chest hair.
“My bath,” he said, wrapping her legs across his lean belly so he could tickle her feet, “my cushion.”
He stretched against her like a slick, satisfied seal, rubbing his wet hair into the curve of her neck. Lainie closed her eyes and dropped her head back. The water lapped at the drooping ends of her intricate hairstyle, most of which had been thoroughly mussed by Richard.
“What did Harlan Powell want?” she asked.
Richard traced interlocking circles on the inside of her knee, drawing patterns with soap bubbles. “Mostly to talk about himself. He did mention a possible role in Macbeth next year.”
“Oh,” she said sleepily. “Good. As Macbeth?”
“I don’t see myself as the Macduff type, do you?” His hand reached back to cup her cheek, providing a handy pillow against the hard surface of the bath. “I also ran into Eric Westfield, the RSPA vice president.”
Lainie’s eyes opened. “And?”