Page 21 of On Thin Ice

That would certainly make the next ten years bearable.

But had we moved away from that? I was glad my eyes were still closed as I tried to imagine how what we’d just done would again completely change my life.

Chapter 8

Sinclair pulled me into his arms, and I had to simply let him, as if I were a limp rag doll, because I felt like I could barely move. He was warm and smelled good up close. For now, I tried to push the enormity of what had just happened out of my mind, because it was already done.

Hadn’t I wanted this?

Oh, yes…and, this close to him again, I wanted so much more.

Grateful that my animal desires eclipsed my noisy brain, I focused on how strong he felt against my body. His chest was nothing but pure muscle, unforgiving and yet smooth beneath my fingers.

“How do you feel?” he asked as my finger swirled on his nipple.

“I can’t even describe it. Right now, I feel like I could melt into your bed.”

He chuckled, his hand moving over my back. As it made its way to the curve, I wanted him to keep going—to cup my ass, to sneak his fingers between my legs.

How was I feeling so desirous again already?

And yet I was. It had to be because of him. He had this effect on me. But, rather than question it, I kissed his chest.

And I decided to admit it. “I want you inside me. I want to know what that feels like.” Kissing up his chest, I began moving touching my lips to his neck, his chin—and his stubble prickled at me as if warning me.

But I pressed on.

“Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“More than.” I kissed him hard on the lips then, and he returned it with force, as if this had been the moment he’d been waiting for. Then he rolled me on my back and kissed my neck, my nipples, licked and lapped until I was arching my back, practically begging him to tear me in half.

I needed him—and it was as if my body was telling me it had been waiting my whole life for him.

For Sinclair.

Maybe it had.

His legs were between mine, but it was his fingers that touched me there, heating me up all over again. Then he sat up, pulling open a drawer in the nightstand beside the bed. I almost asked what he was doing when I saw the answer in the form of a little square packet. I might have been a virgin, but I knew what that was and felt immense gratitude. I hadn’t even stopped to think how vulnerable I’d been at that moment. Instead, I’d been completely thoughtless. What the hell would I have done if I’d gotten pregnant?

But his lips back on mine after he put the condom on pulled me from my self-criticism. Again, he maneuvered his fingers between my legs and stroked my slit, but this time, he slid a finger inside as if testing the waters before swimming.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice coarse.

“Yes.”

Closing my eyes, I readied myself. Once more, his lips touched mine and I opened them to invite him inside, envisioning every part of me unfurling itself for him like a summer flower. At first, his manhood entering me felt slightly uncomfortable—but as it progressed, the pain increased, and I pictured my walls spreading apart, pushing back, inviting him in.

But there was resistance…as if my own body were betraying me.

Like earlier, an unbidden noise escaped my mouth, but it was not a sound of pleasure.

His voice was soft. “Are you all right?”

“Mm-hmm.” This wasn’t true, but I thought back to that middle grade sex ed class. I knew there was a hymen inside me that needed to be broken—that was the medieval way of determining if a new wife was truly a virgin. It was the blood that came after from the tearing of that thin membrane—and possibly the sensation of breaking through—that told them.

And so I knew this was something I had to do. Afterward, it wouldn’t hurt as much…because there wouldn’t be anything left to break.

And I was giving to Sinclair the one thing I could never give to anyone else.

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