That . . . was a first. “My skin.” Skin which was currently tingling with every pass of her hands over it.
“It’s so different from mine. That’s the real reason why men are attracted to women, isn’t it? And vice versa? The differences?”
“And you don’t have skin?”
She chuckled, then pressed her cheek to his chest in a way that made him want to hold her close against him, curling around her to act like her shield for all the negativity that might come her way. “I don’t have this skin. It’s always warm, and this gorgeous golden copper color, and it’s hard. Not rough, exactly, but not like mine.” She took a testing nip on one of his pecs, and he tensed. “And tasty.”
“You’re right. Differences are what attract. Time to compare.” He pulled until her shirt rolled up and over her head, leaving her in what he supposed could be called a bra . . . in fantasy land. The lace cups held her modest breasts up, barely concealing the areolas from his view. And there was a front clasp. Nothing, to Graham’s way of thinking, screamed feminine sexuality more than a lacy, front-clasp bra.
He let his lips wander, reveling in the fact that he finally could. Loving every hitched breath, every little sigh. The way her stomach muscles tightened as he edged close to her nipple, then seemed to shudder when he eased back.
“Graham.” Her voice was unsteady. “What are you doing?”
“Getting to know our differences. You’re right. You’re soft, and your skin is this creamy color that’s . . .”
She raised her head, arching one auburn brow at him. “That’s what?”
“Never mind.” He kissed her stomach and worked on the front clasp to distract her.
“No, what? Now you’ve got to tell me.” When the clasp sprang free, she scrambled to hold the cups in place. “Tell me, or the girls stay in for the night.”
“Kara,” he growled.
“Graham,” she growled back, sounding like an irate kitten.
“Fine,” he bit out. “Your skin reminds me of this antique lace tablecloth my yaya had. Her grandmother made it. And my mom always told me I had to be really careful when we ate at the table, because it was super old and I could hurt it if I wasn’t vigilant. So I always thought it was too delicate for me.”
She started to speak, but he stretched up to kiss her quiet again.
“Then one day, I spilled juice on it. I was about nine. I freaked out, started crying, and my yaya asked why. I told her I’d ruined it, that it was special and beautiful and I’d ruined it.”
“Graham,” she began, cupping his cheek. But he shook his head.
“Yaya sat me down and said the tablecloth had survived countless little boys before me, and it would go on to survive countless more after. Because it looked delicate and beautiful, but it was made of stern stuff and wouldn’t be ruined so easily. Next time I came over, tablecloth was back on the table. Couldn’t even tell where I’d spilled my juice.”
“I’m the tablecloth?” she asked slowly.
“You’re delicate and beautiful to look at, but I have to keep reminding myself how tough and resilient you are. Your strength isn’t easy to see . . . but you’ve got it.”
Her eyes watered, and she blinked rapidly. “Dusty in here.”
Graham looked over at his dust-free night stand. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Now, back to where we were . . .” He pulled gently on the cups of her bra, and watched as it fell open for him, revealing more creamy flesh and dusky pink areolas. They furled under his gaze, and he couldn’t help but take the closest one into his mouth for a taste.
Kara’s hands cupped the back of his head, moaning. He let his free hand move down to unbutton her jeans. Without pushing them down, he reached in, testing her with one finger. Teasing around the entrance to her sex. The tight quarters of her pants gave him little motion, which was exactly what he wanted.
“Take . . . you can take . . . take them off,” she said around swallows. She arched her hips up to give him a chance to slide the pants off.
He didn’t.
“Graham?” she said, questioning.
“Easy. Just let me do things my way for a while. If you don’t like it, we can change it up later.” He played more, through the soft hair below, grazing her clit, down to the slick, plump folds that were growing more wet by the minute. “Sometimes, I think we skip past foreplay too quickly.”
“We haven’t done anything but foreplay,” she insisted.
“I mean in general. Adults. We spend our teenage years figuring out all the different ways to get off, or simply have fun, without actually having sex. And then we finally have sex”—he grinned when he rubbed the bundle of nerves between two fingers and she cried out—“and we forget all the fun ways we played before we knew what the end result was.”
“I like the end result.” She gasped. “We could . . . oh my God.”