“Is the theatre on fire?” His voice had a throaty edge. “Are you on fire?”
Lainie couldn’t help smiling. He was just so...cute. All rumpled and sexy and cranky. The covers were bunched around his hips. She leaned forward and kissed his chest. Evading the grab he made for her, she scooted out of bed and snatched up her fleecy dressing gown. She didn’t fancy freezing to death in the loo. It would make embarrassing copy for the gossip blogs.
When she returned to the bedroom, Richard was off the phone and typing something into his iPad. He tapped the screen a few times, then tossed it aside. Eyeing her dressing gown, he came up on his knees and caught her around the waist. He, apparently, had no issues with subarctic nudity.
“Nice,” he said, running his hands up her arms. “Take it off.”
“It’s warm.” She captured his sneaking fingers and entwined them with her own. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against his. She lightly kissed the bridge of his nose. “Morning.”
“It’s six thirty. It’s dark. That’s night. Bedtime.” With deft movements, he pulled his hands free and yanked open the belt of her dressing gown. It was slipped from her shoulders and thrown haphazardly behind her. Ignoring her laughing protest, he pulled her hard against him and pushed her down on top of it.
She wriggled beneath his heavy body, getting into a more comfortable position, and he gently kissed her cheek. She could feel the heat and hardness of his sleep-warmed skin along the full length of her torso. His mouth drifted to hers. He nudged her thighs with his knee, and she agreeably parted her legs, lifting them to hug his hips. He hooked an arm under her bent knee, lifting her teasingly against him.
“Warm enough?” he asked wickedly, as he bent his head to her neck. She closed her eyes, her breath quickening. His touch was leisurely, almost lazy. It was a slow drift of pleasure, rather than the intense, driven heat of their previous intimacy. She could stay in the moment, keep tabs on her own body. Focus on his.
The heat pump in the lounge was on a low heat overnight, not nearly enough to counteract the predawn chill of autumnal London. The bedroom was cold. Richard was not.
A warm hand slid firmly up her ribs and lifted the weight of her right breast. His thumb moved to flick and circle. Her back arched. Sinking her fingers into his messy curls, she tugged his face toward hers.
“I assume the Metronome is not on fire?” she murmured.
He moved his hand down her hip, sliding it beneath her, seeming to enjoy the feeling of her skin. His lips returned to her neck, moved up to her jaw and cheek. “No.” He nudged her cheek with his nose. It was an affectionate gesture, and she relaxed her grip on his hair, shaping his head with her palm.
When he would have kissed her mouth again, she held him away, staring up at him, content to just...look, for a moment.
His cheeks were already flushed. Men, in her experience, tended to pull the same facial expression during sex that they made just prior to a final touchdown in a televised rugby match. Utter concentration. Leashed anticipation. Perspiring forehead. Ready to celebrate the successful try with a triumphant shout, a pat on the back and a beer-fuelled nap.
Bad time to get an urge to giggle.
He smoothed her hair back from her own damp forehead, rubbing his thumb against her temple. “Tig.” His voice was deep and rough, and effectively banished any ill-timed amusement.
She watched her fingertips as she traced the edge of his ear, stroked the side of his neck, tested the strength of his shoulder. The muscles there were flexing as he kept his weight propped on one arm.
Her gaze returned to his. His eyes were almost black. No trace of sleepiness now.
“What did Lynette want?” she asked quietly. The room felt hushed. She touched his chin. Ran her thumb across his lower lip.
He caught it, briefly, between his teeth. “To spread the misery of insomnia.” He shifted against her, and they both drew in a hitching breath. “She’s had an email from...” He exhaled sharply when her hand crept sneakily down between them. “Ministerial bigwig. Requesting that I speak on cultural funding at a parliamentary conference next month.”
“What?” Lainie’s lashes had drooped to a languid half-mast, but she looked up at that. She withdrew her prowling hand to grip his biceps. “That’s awesome. It’s exactly the sort of opportunity you want, isn’t it?”
Richard retrieved her fingers and firmly returned them to their previous site of exploration. “It’s a very good start.”
She had questions about the conference—very bright, astute questions—but he’d never know how perceptive she was, thanks to his bossy, demanding lips.
God, he tasted good.
“You’re not bad at this sex thing,” she gasped a few minutes later, her arm inadvertently tightening in a chokehold around his neck.