Page 17 of Fear of Flames
Eight
With her hand in Fletch’s, Michelle followed him into the bedroom. The loss of proximity to the fireplace caused a scattering of goose bumps over her skin, or maybe it was the realization of what was about to happen.
Did she want Fletch?
Did she want him in the way things were headed?
Yes, without a doubt.
Could she go into a physical relationship knowing that tomorrow they’d say goodbye? While her heart argued with her mind, her body gave in. Michelle was indisputably infatuated. Being in proximity to his sheer bulk dwarfed her in a way she liked. There was something in Fletch’s kiss—a spark of wanton desire she’d only written about in her books.
It was in the way his hand possessively wound in her hair at the nape of her neck, the way he directed their movements, and the intimacy of his tongue against hers.
Coffee and spice.
Each nip and nibble of her lips sent jolts of lightning through her nervous system. Synapse after synapse exploded, mini detonations all building toward the promise of more.
Michelle raised her arms as Fletch lifted the hem of her shirt. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her bare breasts and stomach.
“No,” he growled, reaching for her wrists. “I want to see in person what I’ve only ever imagined.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are utterly stunning.” He cupped one breast and then the other. “I could get lost in your boobs.”
Michelle scoffed at his prediction. They were large—triple D to be exact.
She moaned as he lowered his face, sucking one nipple and then the other. Each touch was a direct line of electricity to her core. The kneading of each breast wound her tighter and tighter still. Gathering her wits, Michelle reached for Fletch’s shirt, and mimicking his movements, lifted the hem over his head and dropped the shirt to the floor.
The sight before her was as if a Greek god had descended from Mount Olympus. Perhaps one had. That was why Fletch didn’t exist. He was a god who escaped the heavens to save her. She ran the pads of her fingers over his toned chest and abdomen. If only his story was written in braille, she would read it in its entirety.
“I hope you like what you see” —his voice held a new, more gravelly tone— “as much as I like what I see.”
She did like what she saw. That didn’t stop her from tentatively taking a step back. When Fletch tilted his head in question, Michelle spoke her mind. “I like what I see. It’s that” —she hesitated— “I’m lost and strangely out of control of, well, everything.”
Fletch took a step closer. “Shelly, we don’t…” He ran his hand over his hair. “Adrenaline, well, it’s real. I want you to know that if we take comfort in one another, it’s not because of the high from what we’ve been through.” His gaze stayed on hers. “Or the lows. You don’t know me. I know you and fuck” —he exhaled— “I never thought I’d be with you like this. You really are beautiful. You decide.”
Would it be wrong to take pleasure where she could?
Michelle stepped closer. “I want memories of the man who doesn’t exist.”
As if the flames from the fireplace spread to the bedroom, the temperature rose. Their words were as scrambled as their movements as they shed one another’s remaining clothes. Fletch flung back the covers exposing the sheet beneath and together they fell onto the cool bed. His dark orbs focused only on Michelle.
Kneeling on the mattress, he moved closer. As their proximity lessened, her breathing shallowed. It was as he spread her knees and buried his face in her core that Michelle cried out. What he was doing was ecstasy and agony all at once. There was no way for her to describe what he did with his mouth, tongue, and fingers. It was too much and at the same time, not enough.
As she grasped the sheet to remain earthbound, her body ignited. Faster than the blaze consuming her father’s house, the heat overtook her. Riding the waves of the best orgasm of her life, Michelle was met nose to nose with the man responsible.
His forehead met hers. “You’re gorgeous when you come, and you taste like fucking honey.”
With his weight over her, Michelle spread her legs, welcoming his long and muscular form between her thighs. Her hands went to his shoulders, feeling his warm skin and assuring herself that without a doubt, this man was, in fact, real.
“If we don’t stop now…” he began.
“No.” Her head shook. The cascade of recent events was too much. Michelle’s emotions were raw. The visceral need to be physically with Fletch overwhelmed her rational thinking. “Don’t stop. I want to remember you.”
“I don’t have a condom.”
She shook her head. “I’m on the pill.”
