Page 25 of Only the Wicked
She rests her hands against the cabinet, twisting to face me. Her posture pulls the sundress tight against her chest.
“What’s your longest relationship?”
“Seven years.” I move closer. “Yours?”
Her gaze travels to the far ceiling corner.
“Syd?”
“Closer to seven months.” Her lips purse, possibly amused. “I’m not one to keep track. But is that why you’re so comfortable with this…” Her hand sweeps her middle as if she can’t say the words.
“For the record, period sex can be hot.”
Her nose crinkles.
“I agree that for our first time, it’s not ideal. And to be clear, I’m not proposing sex.”
No, I’m apparently an extremely horny fucker. I reach around her for the unopened bottle, but I hesitate, unsure about opening it, as we don’t need more alcohol.
“What exactly are you proposing?”
I set the bottle back down. “Let me make you feel good.” I reach for her hand and lift it from the cabinet. “Are you game?”
“Is that an attempt to appeal to my competitive side?”
I’ve no chance of hiding the smirk that breaks out with her accusation. People say I’m good at reading people. I suppose I am. Her insistence on hiking while injured tipped me off to a few proclivities.
I should probably back out, beg off, but I want to kiss her again. So I do.
When I lower my lips to hers, her body melds into mine, eliminating any distance. Any trace of timidity evaporates. The urge to lift her onto the cabinet, period be damned, intensifies, so I break the kiss.
Months from now, I want her to remember the man she met on her between-jobs getaway. But there’s no need for self-torture.
I lead her to her bed and pat the mattress.
Her eyes narrow. “You said?—”
I stop her with a finger over her plush, no longer glossy, lips.
“I said I’m going to make you feel good. Turn around.”
Her fingers sink into the comforter.
“Trust me?”
The color of her eyes deepens as her pupils expand. Nerves? Desire?
Obediently, she turns, baring her back to me. I brush her hair over one shoulder and press my lips to her nape. Tiny goosebumps rise along her arms. With a gentle tug, I lower the zipper and slide the thin straps of fabric over her shoulders, letting the dress fall unceremoniously to the floor.
My gaze roves down her spine, over the curve of her lower back, to the black lace thong covering her smooth, shapely bottom. My throat tightens and the heart symbol on my watch lights with what I am certain is a significant pulse rate increase.
She looks over her shoulder at me, eyes dark, a shade of uncertainty mixed with want.
Me too, Syd.
I spread my fingers over the comforter, brushing the silky fabric back and forth.
“Lie down, face down.”
