Later, after walking her home and taking a cab back to his apartment, he turned his mind to her virgin status with conflicted feelings. Preston hadn’t been with a virgin since he was a virgin, and he’d lost his virginity at sixteen. Not that he’d come close to being a manwhore—rowing had eaten a lot of his twenties, after all—but he’d certainly had his fair share of lovers since then. Would it bother her to know that? Would his experience lessen his value in her eyes or make her pull away from him?
He flinched, narrowing his eyes, suddenly regretting that he’d engaged in casual sex over the years and wishing his history was more defendable. Because he didn’t want for her to pull away. In fact, despite the fact that they’d only been dating for a few weeks, he couldn’t imagine losing her. Every moment he spent with Elise, his feelings for her grew—he admired her, he loved spending time with her, he was so damn attracted to her, every time he touched her or kissed her, his blood raged for more. His shower setting was permanently set to cold.
If he liked her less—if his heart hadn’t already been touched by the sweetness of her smile, her playfulness and intense determination—he might actually think about moving on, because he refused to pressure her, and patience wasn’t Preston Winslow’s strong suit. But moving on never even crossed his mind. He would slow down. He would temper his expectations. He would follow her cues and be respectful of her virtue. And someday—oh God, please—maybe someday, if he was patient, he would deserve her…and all of Elise would belong to him.
***
“Pres,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing against his hot skin, her nipples sensitive and beaded inside her bra, under her T-shirt, pushing against the hard wall of his chest.
Preston dragged his lips over her collarbone and Elise stepped closer to him so she could feel the hard outline of his erection pressing against her pelvis. No, she couldn’t do anything about it tonight, standing on the sidewalk before her apartment, but she wanted to know that he desired her—she needed to know that his body reacted to her touch.
Since their talk at the Met last night, she’d sensed a subtle difference in him. He still reached for her, and he’d kissed her passionately last night when he walked her home, but he hadn’t invited her over to his place again this weekend, or jockeyed for an invitation to hers. And when he kissed her, he was more careful, like she was fragile or breakable. He was holding himself back and she didn’t like it. Wanton that she was, she longed for more.
Still holding her in his arms, he took a step away from her so that his erection wasn’t pressing into her anymore, and she twitched her lips in disappointment. No, she wasn’t ready for sex, but she was invested enough that she didn’t want him to pull away from her either.
“Kiss me again before you go,” he whispered, his voice deep and drunk.
She raised her head, nailing him with her eyes, and stepped into him again, deliberately, pushing against his sex and watching as his breath hitched and eyes darkened. Her chest rose and fell double time into his as she felt his hardness twitch against her lower belly under his khaki pants. Understanding that her actions were intentional, he exhaled on a low groan, crushing her lips with his, tightening his arms around her as she arched against him.
Leaning up on tiptoes, she wound her arms around his neck and he drew her closer to him, plunging his tongue into her mouth where she welcomed it with hers. She moaned softly as a million butterflies beat their wings against the walls of her chest, and deep inside she felt a gathering, a liquid heat as her muscles contracted and released, preparing for more, priming themselves, letting her know that someday soon they’d be ready.
“Elise,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek, then sliding them to the soft skin under her ear, which he nipped and kissed, his teeth taking the lobe of her ear gently as his hands slipped under her shirt to flatten against the warm skin of her back. “What are you doing to me?”
She took a deep, ragged breath, closing her eyes as his lips rested on her throat, her fluttering pulse beating against his lips, telling him that everything he felt, she was feeling too. He backed her up two steps until the tree across from her brownstone was behind her, and his soft, black hair rested against her cheek. He traced a trail with his lips from her pulse to the base of her throat, kissing her softly as she let her head fall back and eyes open.
Through the branches of the tree overhead, she could see the lights on in her apartment and her heart plummeted. Neve was home. She sighed, spreading her fingers in Preston’s hair and feeling sorry for herself. If Elise had to say goodnight to her delectable boyfriend, she’d rather go nurse her loneliness in dark peace and quiet. The last thing she wanted to do was make small talk with a roommate she never saw and barely knew.
“Good luck this week,” he murmured close to her ear. “Knock ‘em dead, okay?”
“I hope so,” she said.
Tomorrow Elise would be meeting Garrett Hedlund and Maggie Gyllenhaal for the first time and running through the show with them, and yes, she was nervous, but she knew the show cold, and over the last twenty days she had become very comfortable at Lincoln Center and with the cast and crew.