Page 118 of Better Hate than Never

Suddenly I have an image in my head of Christopher asleep, rumpled in his sheets, sunshine sweeping down the landscape of his smooth skin and broad, hard muscles, caressing the curly licks of his hair. I think about photographing him when he rolls over in bed and wakes up grinning, teasing me about my bird’s nest and wrapping a long coil of my hair around his finger. I picture us in the kitchen, quiet and sunlight and dust motes dancing in the air, sitting at the island, me in one of his big soft shirts, capturing with the camera the moment his dark eyes meet mine over a cup of coffee.

I want to chart the years of his life with my eyes, my hands, my camera, when those faint lines at the corners of his eyes etch themselves deeper from so much laughter that we’ll share. I want to drag him places without a plan and only a Polaroid around my neck to fill the walls of this place with garlands of memories captured in tiny squares of joy. I want him for now. For always. And he wants me, too.

For as long as you’d have me, he said.

I plan to do my damnedest to be sure that is indeed averylong time.

“I believe you,” I tell him, my voice sure and steady. “I trust you.”

He sighs in satisfaction, dragging me over his body until I straddle his lap. He kisses my mouth, hot and slow, his handstracing my body, settling at my backside and squeezing affectionately. I shift over him, easing the ache between my legs as I rub against his length.

Air rushes out of Christopher as he stares up at me.

“Is this okay?” I ask.

He laughs roughly. “ ‘Okay’ is a deeply inadequate word for how I feel about this.” His hands drift along my waist. “In fact, I would not mind at all if you...” He clears his throat. Isheblushing? “If you moved about two feet up the bed.”

I blink at him, then do the math. My mouth falls open. “But that’s your head.”

“My face,” he says, smiling. “Yes. Do you know what you’d do there?”

It’s not hard to intuit. But it still makes me blush fiercely. “Yes... and no.”

Christopher’s hands are gentle on my hips, his smile soft. “Do you want to try?”

Insecurity pounds through me. So I answer him honestly. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, honey.” His hands travel down my hips, then lower, massaging gently. “We can stay just like this.”

I shut my eyes, feeling his hands making this glorious circuit from my hips to my ass to my thighs, then back up, and I think about how it might feel for him to do that, while his mouth and tongue teased and tasted me, coaxed my body to orgasm. To be so close to him while he did it. To touch his hair and feel his sounds against me, to feel so lost to him and at the same time, to have so much control.

And suddenly I am incredibly aroused.

“I think maybe...” I clear my throat. “I want to try.”

His eyes hold mine. “There’s no pressure, Kate. Only if you want...”

I’m already crawling up his body, stopping long enough for him to pull me close and share a long, deep kiss. “I want,” I whisper.

He exhales roughly. Then Christopher reaches around and eagerly knocks away the pillows except for one that he fluffs below his head and drops onto with a contented sigh.

I smile. “You’re acting like a kid at Christmas.”

“This is way better than Christmas,” he says, grinning. “Now, get up here and sit on my face.”

I slap a hand over my eyes and shriek a laugh. “You can’t justsaythat!”

“I believe I just did.” His hand lands with a sweet swat on my butt that makes my thighs clench on either side of his ribs. “Get up here.”

Sighing but grinning like a goofball, I ease up a little higher, then stop. “Wait. What are the logistics of this?”

“Grab the headboard,” he says.

I do that.

“Now, kneel on either side of my head.”

I do that, too. And I blush fiercely. “Oh, God. I’m doing this.”

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