Page 61 of The Heart We Guard
But with Butcher’s thick arm slung over my hip, his warm palm pressed right up where our baby is growing, I think I might be more demi or gray than purely asexual. It’s either that, or pregnancy hormones that I’ve heard can sometimes increase a person’s desire for sex.
And I try to place what it is about Butcher that makes me feel so different that I’m feeling a sexual attraction with him that I didn’t with others.
Connection is a difficult word to explain. But there is something between us. A tether that binds beyond who we are and what we do.
Plus, I feel safe with him. The man broke laws to find me. I think back to when Nicholas Gray’s father appeared at the door shortly after Butcher’s major surgery and how Butcher still came to protect me.
Regardless of the reason, Butcher is a furnace of temptation. With his breath warm against my neck, and the satisfaction of his chest pressed up against my back, my mind races with the rare thought that I want the man to make love to me.
The soft fabric of the sheet glides across my skin, and every hair on my body stands to attention at the sensation.
The strength of feeling I have for this man scares me. But not as much as the worry I might wake later in the morning and find him gone.
Butcher stirs. “Stop moving.”
I smile softly, but the deep, gravelly voice, rough with sleep, increases the revving of my rusty engine.
Which, Jesus, it’s too early for those kinds of metaphors.
Although, I think Butcher might appreciate the analogy.
He slides his palm over my panties, cupping me gently, and I can’t help but rock against his touch.
Butcher doesn’t move, and for a moment, I wonder if I did something incredibly improper. Or amateur. I’m no virgin, but given sex isn’t usually my first thought, I don’t have as much experience as some.
And certainly not the kind of experience a man like Butcher has.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m uncertain why I’m saying it.
“Don’t be. I liked it. But I was worried about something.”
“What?”
Butcher kisses the side of my neck tenderly. The bristles of his short beard scratch against my neck. “Consent, Dr. Hansen. I respect the rules.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Butcher, you don’t even respect traffic lights.”
He snorts. “Was that a yes?”
It takes a second to roll over so I can face him and place my hand to his cheek. “Yes. It was a yes.”
His lips hit mine, and this time, it feels different. Even better than before. Less gasoline-fueled fire, and more slow-burning logs. It’s cozy mornings and coffee.
It’s comfort.
A slow, gentle, tender appraising.
His lips and mine and the breath that comes in between.
The taste and texture of his tongue meeting mine. Something I’ve often found warm and wet, and yet, today is an experience that elevates me to a different place.
Sexuality. Hormones. The thoughts I had earlier replay for a moment, but I lose my hold on them. I don’t need to title this.
All I want and need is to enjoy this moment for what it is.
Special.
“You’re not going to ghost me this time?” I ask, exposing the tender part of my soul to him. The part that acknowledges he has the power to break me, should he choose.
