Page 63 of An American in London

“What?” I ask.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “And I ...” He frowns. I know that he has more to say, and I want to hear it all.

He moves to kiss me again and I stop him. “You, what?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply for a second or two, his gaze flitting from my eyes to my lips, lower, then up again. “I really like you,” he says finally.

I nod. “Yeah, I really like you too.”

He swallows and I watch the bob of his throat. I reach for him, smoothing my fingers down his neck, wanting to be closer to him, desperate to feel him from the inside.

“Tuesday.” He cups the back of my head with both hands and presses his lips to mine. I sink into him, half drowned in him, thankful that this is where we are right now.

Tentatively, I place my hands against his chest, and he pauses, just for a fraction of a second, like my touch has interrupted his circuitry, and it takes him a second to reconnect his brain to his body. His mouth pulls from mine, plowing a path along my jaw, his fingers pressing, his tongue more insistent.

He sweeps his hands down my arms and presses me down, flat on the sofa, so I’m on my back and he’s over me. His eyes are hooded, and I can feel his need, his desire for me. It’s coming off him in waves. I have to have him, or a part of me will be left empty for the rest of time.

“I’ve waited so long ...” He trails off.

“I know,” I say. “I want this too.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t possibly want me as much as I want you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Feeling his yearning sends heat to my core. Like he’s bringing me to life after years spent waiting. “You’re wrong.” I hold out my hand and he threads his fingers through it.

He slides over me, both of us fully clothed but our barriers abandoned. Our hips lock together and I can feel him against me, and I’m more aware of each part of me that he’s touching. His body over mine magnifies every sensation, coaxing fire to life in places I’ve never felt it before. I worry I might combust if he stays here, on top of me, but I might wither and die if he doesn’t. I need him. He shifts over me and I try to muffle the sound that echoes from me at the feel of him so close.

“I want to hear every sound you make, Tuesday,” he says. “I want to know all of you.”

I sigh as his lips resume their journey, pressing and pulling, licking and sucking. A coil inside me winds tighter and tighter, every touch tethering us closer together.

He pulls my shirt from the waist of my skirt and skims his teeth along my stomach. The connection leaves a trail of heat—he’s a lit match and I’m a twist of paper. I roll my hips, trying to feel more and less at the same time. The buttons of my shirt are undone, but I’m so dazed I don’t remember how they got that way. Ben is licking and pressing and my blood dances in my veins, my heartbeat throbbing ... everywhere.

He sweeps his hands up my thighs and under my skirt, then hooks his fingers into my underwear and tugs them down, just enough that he can slide his palm over me. He groans as he feels how warm I am.

How wet.

How completely ready.

My hand winds in his hair and we stare at each other, understanding where we are: at the point of no return.

But I don’t want to go back.

“More,” I whisper. “I want everything.”

His hand rocks over me, his fingers finding more of my wetness. I arch my spine as sensation washes through me. Such a small touch ... How will I handle more?

He dips and scrapes his teeth over my nipple. Even through the fabric of my bra, it sends sparks across my vision.

“Ben!” I cry out. He’s pulled me to the event horizon in just a few seconds; any further, and I will fall and fall and fall.

I’m not ready.

And he knows.

His mouth moves to my collarbone, but his hand stays, his fingers smoothing and dipping ... It’s just a step away from too much.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. I pull at them, finally freeing the fabric. I grasp him, pulling at his shoulders and waist, impatient for more, eager to quench this thirst I have for him.

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