“Well, if you’d stop trying to take advantage of me, maybe we could find out.”
“Oh, shut up.” I reach out to poke his rib cage but he’s ready for it, grabbing hold of my wrist. He easily pulls me over and onto him, until I can feel his heart beating wildly against my chest.
I study the beautiful face below me as he pushes my loose hair off my face and seems to study mine. Despite the butterflies in the pit of my stomach, I feel comfortable with him.
“Let me show you how it’ll work.” Brett grasps the back of my head and pulls me down, his arms coiling around to hold me against him as he kisses me deeply, the mood around us suddenly shifting.
The storm outside has passed without waking Brenna, the rumbles now distant and soft, the rain a light drizzle against the glass. It’s no longer masking the sounds of our urgent lips, growing pink and swollen from friction, or our shallow breaths, or our low moans, each of us waiting for the other to make that daring next move.
It’s Brett who finally breaks, his fingers fumbling with the silk tie that cinches the material around my waist, tugging it loose. He pulls free of my lips long enough to look up at me, asking permission as his hands settle on my shoulders, the straps within his grasp.
I give him a single nod.
And then he’s sliding the top of my outfit down, exposing the skimpy black lace bra from Target that I splurged on this past week. His mouth trails downward, landing on my collarbone as he pushes me onto my back to wriggle the loose-fitting outfit to my hips. He doesn’t stop there, though, using his one hand to pull it down past my thighs, past my knees. I lift my legs, allowing it to slip past my ankles and off.
It’s as if Brett’s reached his threshold of slow and steady, though, because he’s immediately reaching behind me to unfasten my bra with ease. I know that if I told him to stop, he would. But I don’t say a word, letting him maneuver himself until he’s propped on one elbow and taking a peaked nipple into his mouth. I gasp at the first feel of his tongue against me.
I still can’t believe this is happening.
Wrapping my arms around Brett’s head, I stroke my fingers through his thick mane of hair and close my eyes, trying to soak in the feel of him adoring my body. Trying to remain calm.
Until the hand that idled briefly on my stomach begins to slide down. I tense and his hand freezes, his fingertips resting at the edge of the waistband of my panties. He lifts his head to peer at me, his lips parted and wet, his breath skating across my chest, gooseflesh prickling.
His blue eyes dark and glossy.
“I’m just nervous,” I admit, letting him see my shy smile as I toy with a strand of his hair.
“So am I.” He leans over to kiss me gently on the lips again.
And then his hand slips into my panties.
Our sharp inhales are simultaneous, at the first slide of his finger, at the glaring proof of how much I want this, and him. He doesn’t say a word, though, sighing softly as he touches me, as I feel his calloused hand so smoothly, so masterfully work at a languid rhythm, my body relaxing and opening up to him and, soon, beginning to tilt in search of relief.
And still those blue eyes remain locked on mine, and instead of feeling self-conscious, I don’t mind at all, grazing the fine stubble on his cheek with my thumb as my breathing grows ragged and my throat begins to burn and, finally . . . he watches me as my body tenses and pulses beneath his touch, his own breaths shaky.
He falls onto his back; the strain of holding himself propped on one elbow must be wearing. “God, you are so fucking beautiful. Your body . . . the way you come . . .” His hooded gaze roves over my slender frame, naked expect for the skimpy pair of black panties. “I want to do that every single night.”
“Uh-huh.” Doubtful that any guy would be that keen.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Every single night?”
A sly grin unfolds across his lips. “Well, in one form or another. Wouldn’t want you to get bored.”
“As if I could ever get bored.” My eyes drift over his heaving chest and his splayed legs and . . . that sizable ridge. To have that every single night. He’s so vibrant, so alive, so . . . mine. Deep inside, I hear that little voice insist that I saved him. Every inch of him.
My hand aches with the need to feel him again.
I roll onto my side and smooth my hand over his stomach, as I meant to before.
And then I reach lower to grasp him, this time intentionally.
He’s impossibly hard.
He simply watches me as I gather the nerve to push my fingers beneath the waistband, first of his pants, and then his briefs, to fill my hand with him, delighting in the smooth, velvety soft skin.
A soft curse slips from his lips with the first swipe of my thumb over his tip, his fingers reaching up to toy absently with strands of my hair as I slowly begin to stroke him. But the elastic makes it difficult.
“Help me take these off,” he says, tugging at one side. Freeing my hand, I sit up and seize both sides of his pants, waiting for him to lift his hips, the anticipation of seeing Brett naked for the first time almost too much to handle.
“Mommy!”
“Shit,” I hiss at the sound of Brenna calling me, her voice laced with fear. I look at Brett, sprawled out on the bed. “I’m sorry. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Put this on.” He hands me his T-shirt and I yank it over my head. The hem reaches midthigh.
“Mama!” It’s louder, more urgent.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’ll be back.” Stealing one last quick kiss, I rush for the stairs, not wanting her to try them half-asleep. Or wake up Richard. I find her huddled in a ball on the landing, a sulky, sleepy look on her face. Scooping her up, I bring her back to bed and tuck her in to the warm, silky sheets. She reaches for me, though, her eyes closed but her little fingers grasping the air, and I know that I won’t be free to simply walk out.
I lie down next to her, and she slithers over to curl into my chest. “You smell like Brett’s perfume,” she murmurs.
I smile, not correcting her, and quietly wait for her shallow breathing. It’s twenty minutes before I can peel myself away without her stirring.
Ducking into Brett’s bathroom, I gingerly search his drawers for the spare toothbrush, while taking inventory of all his personal things—his brand of deodorant, the razors he shaves with, the small glass bottle of cologne, half-full.
My heart skips a beat when I spot the opened box of condoms in the bottom left drawer. A peek inside shows me that there are only a few left. While I don’t want to think about Brett having sex with other women, I’m wondering if maybe I should bring one down with me.
I contemplate that as brush my teeth and then, reminding myself that we’re better safe than sorry—and it’s already been well proven that I can’t take birth control pills reliably—I tuck one into the palm of my hand and tiptoe back to Brett’s room.