Page 67 of What Happens in Amsterdam

He pauses for only a moment to look at me with wild eyes, breathing hard, glasses askew. “You’re sure about this?”

“We’re already married,” I say, and suddenly it’s so funny that I have to bite back a laugh. “Wait, wait, wait.” I give his chest a pat. “Are you—? I have an IUD, and I was tested before I left the US.”

“I got tested, too.” The blush across his face deepens as his thumbs trace circles on my back. “Right after that night in the kitchen, actually.”

He leans close to kiss me again, but I pull back with a grin. Hearing that is hotter than I can imagine—that he was preparing for something we swore we wouldn’t do. “You wanted to be ready for me.” I nip at his throat, kiss all of that warm, citrus-tinged skin, and beneath it an earthy scent that’s whollyhim. One that’s been locked in time, stowed away in some kind of olfactory memory box for the way it ignites something in me.

“Fuck, Dani. It feels like I’ve been ready for years.”

He uses my nickname, like he’s so hungry for me that he can’t bother with the extra syllable.

I grab his crooked glasses and place them on the nightstand as he lowers us to the bed, mouth fused to mine again. These kisses are somehow both frantic and sweet—because we have so much time to make up for.

When he pulls away, it’s only to yank my shirt off just as I’m fumbling with his buttons, eager to get my hands on all of him. The broad expanse of his chest. The tattoo on his left shoulder, though I’m in too much of a rush to linger on it. He slides off my pajama shorts in one quick movement. In my dazed state, it takes an actual eon to undo his jeans, but finally they’re tossed onto the floor and he’s staring at me in panties and no bra.

I don’t cover myself the way I might with other new partners. Obviously I look different than I did at seventeen, my stomach softer, my face rounder. But I let him take an extended moment to drink me in, the same way I look at him, at the angles of his chest and the tent in his boxer briefs and the trail of hair I mapped weeks ago. His mouth kicks into an awed, lovely smile that he tries to bite back before letting it go.

“Beautiful,” he says as I tug him on top of me, savoring the weight as he presses me into the mattress. “Absolutely beautiful.”

He buries his lips between my breasts, a thumb sweeping along one nipple. Slowly, slowly, back and forth until I’m aching for more. A gentle pinch. A little harder.

“During that massage in my office…god,” he says on a hot breath. “I felt so fucking unprofessional, the thoughts I was having.”

“Tell me.”

“How incredible it felt to touch you again. How I couldn’t believe you were letting me work your body like that.” He sucks anipple into his mouth while I grasp at his hair, and I let myself be loud about how much I love it. Then he releases me with a pop, blows cool air on my breasts before catching them with his lips again. “Every sound you made, I wondered if it was because of what I was doing to you.”

“It—it was. I wanted you on top of me. Inside me,” I admit as his teeth drag along my sensitive skin. “I locked myself in my room for an hour the next day, just…imagining.”

He groans, rolling his hips into mine, kissing up to my neck again. “You”—mouth on my throat—“think about me”—tongue on my pulse—“when you touch yourself.”

“Yes. Wouter.God.” And even though I know the answer: “Do you?”

Somehow, there’s a sheepishness in the way he bites down on his lip. Even though we’re sweaty and half-undressed, he can still be shy. “Last week…wasn’t the first time I’ve come with your name in my mouth.”

His confession turns me wild. Now I’m the one pinning him, kissing down his chest as he grabs my waist, my hips. I have to get my mouth on the muscles that knew exactly how to stretch my body. The forearms that flexed over me. He laughs, even when I plant little kisses on his hands, but that only makes me kiss him more.

He’s hard as steel beneath me, gripping my ass as I straddle him and rock against his erection, two agonizing layers of fabric separating us.Fuck, he feels good. My eyes fall shut at the sensation. I slide a hand between us to rub him over his boxers while he swallows a moan, growing harder in my palm.

“Not yet,” he manages, and though I want to watch him come undone until every last muscle stops protesting, I lift my hand away. “Please. I need to feel you.”

I have no objections to that. He kisses up the column of my neck, messy and open-mouthed, while he slips a hand into my panties.

“I’m not—I haven’t waxed or anything in a while,” I say. Jace always preferred it, almost as much as I hated doing it.

He gives me a bewildered look. “I want all of you. Exactly the way you are.” He finds the coarse hair between my thighs and almost seems to relish it, letting out a growl as he parts me with two fingers. “Dani. You feel fucking amazing. Are you really this wet for me?”

All I can do is gasp in response. We never spoke like this back then—I’m certain we wouldn’t have known how—and it takes my brain a second to catch up to the fact that Wouter van Leeuwen now has a filthy mouth.

Achingly slow, he works off my panties. Drags his fingers up my bare legs, mouth on my knees, my calves, my ankles. I’m already breathing hard at the anticipation of him filling me, but he takes his time relearning me, reacting to each new sound. A knuckle brushed down along my pubic bone. Two slick fingers stroking my lips. He teases my clit for only a moment before he slides a finger inside me, deeper this time.

When I bite down on his ear, I can feel the way it affects him, a tremor of his shoulders that makes me do it again.

Somehow it manages to feel like the first time and also like we’ve charted these paths before, but he’s smoother now, more sure of his movements. Even after all these years, my body remembers how to bend for him, and yet still there’s a question in the way he touches me, waiting for my eageryes.

“Good?” he asks as he returns to my clit, this time with the heel of his hand, pulsing there while I shudder beneath him. There’s a thread of amusement in his voice, because he knows it is. “More pressure? Less? I’m a professional, as you know.”

“More. I—I like a lot of pressure.”

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