“Okay.”
He kissed her, lightly at first, deeper, then pulled away to settle between her legs on his knees. She let him undo the bow of her drawstring and ease her pajamas away. His breath grew shallow at a moment’s peek between her legs. No panties, just her, obscured by the shadows. He could smell her, as well, if faintly. Christ, he’d forgotten that scent. His cock went from pulsing to pounding in a single heartbeat. He stroked her from her calves to her thighs, loving the feel of her. Soft skin, soft flesh, everything perfect, right down to the little Band-Aid on her knee. When she twitched, he made the touch firmer.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so—”
“Don’t apologize to me again.”
She bit her lip, as though she’d nearly apologized for apologizing. “Or else what?”
“Or else something mean,” he said softly, still stroking her legs. “I dunno what yet, but something awful. Maybe I’ll sing to you.”
She smiled. “I like your singing.”
“When have— Oh, to the baby.”
“And in the car. You sang along to ‘My Sharona’ last time you drove me to town. You didn’t know half the words, but I like your voice.”
“Well, I’ll cook for you, then. I cook the worst eggs you’ve ever tasted,” he promised, squeezing her ankles, calves, thighs, hips. “You want them burned and rubbery, or all snotty in the middle?”
“Gross.” The word was barely a breath, as his thumbs ran along the creases of her uppermost thighs, close enough for him to feel the soft tease of her pubic hair. She sucked an inhalation as though shocked or tickled, and Casey made the touch firmer. He planted his knees wider, opening her legs in turn. Her calves were cool at his hips, telling him precisely how hot he was burning for her. His mouth felt dry, cock already hurting from neglect. He let his hand inch closer, closer, until his thumbs found the plump swells of her outer lips. Their collective breath came up short.
He laid the length of his thumb along one edge of her sex and slowly drew the other down the seam, then up. As he brushed her clit, she jolted, grasping his upper arms.
He went still. “You want me to stop?”
“No. It just . . . zapped me.”
“Okay.” He curled forward to kiss her belly through her shirt, hands still frozen. “If anything’s too much, just say.”
“I will.”
He traced both thumbs along her outer folds this time, down and back up. A softer buck answered when he glanced her clit, chased by a sigh.
He smiled to himself. He knew there were men—men like his brother, he bet—who’d find all this waters testing too much work to bother with. Guys who didn’t want to pick the lock, preferring to just go charging through like a battering ram. Casey, however, enjoyed picking locks, both figuratively and literally. Loved a challenge. He loved figuring a woman out, discovering what could melt her nerves away, what could leave her begging for more.
He bet most anybody who hadn’t slept with him would assume he was the battering-ram type, which was fair—he was pretty blunt in most aspects of his life. But in his old line of work, and in bed, he was a perfectionist. An artist, as Emily had called him. He wasn’t jacked like Vince, or freakishly good-looking like Duncan, or any kind of small-town royalty like Miah. He wasn’t even a great person, he suspected, but he was a damn good lover. And he’d stay on his knees all night, taking it stroke by stroke like a painter, if that’s what it would take to figure Abilene out.
“That feels nice,” she whispered. Her eyes were shut, her lips parted.