Page 70 of The Love Scam
“Yes,” she said, and reached for him.
Forty
She went right into his arms, and it was a revelation, it was the best thing ever, it was all contradiction, and pure Delaney: She was soft and firm and gentle and urgent and sweet and sharp. She had him out of his clothes faster than he believed possible, then pressed her hand against his bare chest and pushed. He fell back on the bed, then propped himself up on his elbows to watch her make short work of her clothes: She yanked the sweatshirt over her head and her lovely apple-size breasts bounced free
(no bra oh my God this might be over the second she touches me)
and she shucked off her jeans and kicked off her shoes and wiggled out of her gray hip-huggers, a panty and color he had never found erotic until this moment. Then she climbed on top of him and he caught her around the waist.
“Wait, socks? You’re leaving your socks on?”
“Shut up,” she breathed, and kissed him through his giggles. He put his arms around her and then stroked down, cupping the firm globes of her ass and going lower, until…
“Hey! That— You’re tickling!”
“Purely a side effect,” he grunted, getting ahold of her left sock and—nope, lost it—wait, there it—ah! “No fair,” he growled as she nibbled and kissed the skin over the pulse in his throat.
“Very fair; I gave consent for sex, not sockless sex.” Her hand slid down
(oh God)
and she found his length just as his hand closed over her other ankle. She clasped him and gave him a firm stroke, then used her thumb to swipe across the wetness at his tip; he groaned into her neck and groped blindly for the sock.
“Split the difference?” he managed, and she laughed and jerked her foot out of his grasp.
“One on and one off? You’re a filthy, filthy man.”
“None of this should be sexy,” he observed. “They’re goddamned tube socks, the least sexy socks in all of sockdom. And you wear old-lady underwear.”
“I wear comfortable underwear, you fucking whiner. Walk around all day with the lace of a G-string up your crack and then tell me how much fun it is.”
“No, no! If I gave the impression I was complaining, I’m sorry. Your clothes shouldn’t be sexy, but they are. I shouldn’t want a tricky bitch like you, but I do. And you shouldn’t be with an asshole like me, but you are.”
She groaned and her fists bopped his shoulders, lightly. “Are you trying to torpedo the mood?”
“No! It’s just happening,” he admitted, thinking,What are you doing? Why are you fucking this up?
“Shut up,” she suggested, “and kiss me back.”
So he did. And it wasn’t just glorious; it was excellent advice, too. Her mouth bloomed beneath his like a dark flower, and he could feel her nipples tightening against his chest. Hewas a tit man, always had been, and Delaney’s were outfuckingstanding, firm and sweet like Anjou pears, with dark pink nipples. She pulled back so he could palm them, and the feel of her tender skin in his hands, and her gray gaze on him, almost made his eyes roll back. She was, in a word, exquisite.
“Condom?”
He nearly shrieked in disappointment. “In my wallet. At the bottom of Lake Como.”
She grinned down at him and sat up. “S’okay. I’ve got a couple in my bag.”
“Thank God,” he said, possibly the most sincere he had been in twenty-eight years. “Really. Thank…God.”
She hurried into the bathroom and he had the extraordinary pleasure of watching her go; she was all dark hair
(the waves tumbling about her shoulders, the sweet dark triangle of her sex… ummmm…)
and pale skin studded with freckles. Her hips swelled from a narrow waist; her legs were long and trim.
She came back holding a condom aloft in triumph
“Ta-dah!”
