Well, after I recover some, because damn… all guys might need a recovery time but this, her, what just happened, have drained me in every sense of the word. And it’s a new feeling, to be drained emotionally, physically, sexually, and not want to lie back and close my eyes and succumb to the exhaustion like usual. I don’t want to at all. I want to lie down next to her, prop my head in my hand, and admire her, talk to her, and just breathe her in.
Shit. I think the paradox this time around is that, rather than my slipping down the slippery slope from lust to love, Beaux and I just experienced something unique to us. We bonded during the adrenaline-fueled action of the raid, the worrisome fear over each other’s safety, and then the agonizing wait to see each other face-to-face. Hell yeah, we bonded, so I’m allowed to be a little in awe of her right now.
Then again, I also try to justify that it’s just being with someone almost every waking hour that has me concerned with her safety, but I’m not real big on lying, so why lie to myself? That lightness in my head could be because of more than just great sex. It could be because Beaux’s starting to mean something to me despite the mere month or so we’ve known each other.
But the time isn’t right, so I push the thoughts away, shove the little pinpricks warning me to slow the fuck down away, and tell myself to enjoy the moment and the warm skin of the gorgeous woman in front of me. I settle down beside her, head propped on my hand, quiet my thoughts, and enjoy the moment.
Her hair is all over the place in stark contrast to the white sheets, but at the same time the fact that it’s falling out of her ponytail softens the sharp lines of her face. She meets my eyes, and I love that even though she’s so goddamn confident everywhere else in whatever this is between us, she appears shy right now. Her cheeks flush even more, and she averts her eyes before scooting into me so that the curves of our bodies fit perfectly into each other’s.
It’s a reflex that my arm wraps around her and pulls her tighter, our lips meeting in a soft sigh of a kiss that says the moment was so much more than solely physical, and yet neither of us wants to address it yet. Because physical attraction is acceptable, but feeling like this, the intensity with which I feel it, is extraordinary.
At least that’s what I hope she’s saying when her tongue meets mine in a soft dance of tenderness and acceptance. We cement our connection this way for a few moments, all hushed words and soft laughter. Hands smoothing over heated skin and heartbeats slowing down.
We settle into such a relaxed silence in the comfort of each other’s arms – so very different than what happened after the last time we had sex – that it kills me when I have to bring up the inevitable.
“We need to work,” I remind her softly, speaking of turning in the written reports that back up my live broadcast from earlier as well as the feeling I have that once I check my phone, there will be messages from Rafe about another live spot.
“I believe you just worked me perfectly fine.” Her laugh is muffled, and I can feel the heat of it from where her lips are pressed against my sternum. The sensation sends a pulse of desire straight to my lower belly.
“And I have no problem working you again.”
“Oh you better plan on it. Again and again,” she says, and the suggestiveness that laces her tone is such a damn turn-on because it gives me that little ego boost to know she enjoyed what just happened as much as I did.
“I do like the again part… but this squeaky bed poses a problem.”
“Squeaky wheel gets the oil.”
“Squeak all you want, because I have no problem oiling you up.” My mind goes in pure male fashion from oil to dipstick to lube jobs and the correlation to sex.
“Hmm,” she murmurs as she leans her head back to look into my eyes. “Maybe we need to change up the location. Does the bed in your room squeak?”