For Her (The Girl I Loved Duet 1)

“I’m going to have to go home in the morning,” I say. “I can’t exactly show up to the set in this dress.”

“You could do exactly that,” he says. “We have an entire room of costumes that you could borrow.”

I laugh. “A costume?”

“You really think someone is going to notice if you borrow a pair of jeans and a shirt from wardrobe?”

He has a point. “You’re probably right. I’ll just have to figure out how to sneak into wardrobe in a goofy blue dress.”

“You’re smart,” he says. “You’ll figure it out.”

He kisses me again, sliding his tongue along my lower lip in a move that’s achingly familiar. I open to him and it feels like gorgeous surrender. My brain is now on board with my body and fiery need snaps through my veins. “Are you sure we have to wait for the food?” I ask.

There’s a low sound in Peter’s throat, and suddenly I’m off the stool and into his arms and we’re climbing the stairs. Suddenly we’re in what must be his bedroom. The bed looks enormous and inviting, but I’m caught on the fact that he’s holding me again.

This time there’s not pain to distract me, my brain isn’t trying to tell me to ignore the firmness of his chest. I’m close to him and so utterly aware of his hands. My own hand is draped around his shoulder, playing with his hair. Setting me down on my feet, he takes my face in his hands and presses his forehead to mine.

The moment hangs in the air, the perfect bridge between the present and past, and that feeling doesn’t disappear when he pulls away.

“The Thai place is close by,” he says, “and they’re fast. They should be here in just a few minutes. Wait here. I’ll be back.”

He doesn’t say more, but when he tangles his fingers in my hair and tilts my face up to meet his, his kiss tells me everything that he left unsaid about what would happen when he came back.

Peter tears his lips from mine like it might kill him, and leaves the room before I can blink. I sway on my feet a little, still recovering. Wow.

I take the moment to look at his bedroom. Almost the opposite the rest of the house, it’s decorated dark and richly, with thick carpet and a bed that has to be a custom frame for how large it is.

The large windows he has look out over the neighborhood, with a pleasant view of waving palm trees and the sky glowing with city lights. Behind me, downstairs, I hear the doorbell ring. That’s the food. My stomach tightens, because that means that Peter is coming back, and then everything after.

I wait, holding my breath, until I hear his footsteps on the stairs. He looks like a different version of himself: sharp and unyielding and hungry, and he doesn’t miss a beat crossing the room and pulling me firmly against him. He takes my mouth, and this kiss is different. It’s overwhelming with everything that he’s been feeling since he saw me again.

This kind of passion is the kind you can fall into and never come out of. “We’re not leaving this room until I’ve relearned every inch of you,” he says.

I swallow. “That’s a lot to learn.”

“We’ve got all night.” His hands stroke my shoulders, and the buzz of vodka in my veins is the thing that is keeping me from shaking with nerves.

Peter’s thumbs hook under the fabric of my dress and pull it aside, letting it fall. It’s enough that the entire dress slips down to the floor, and suddenly I’m in nothing but panties. His eyes devour me, and I think I might combust from the heat.

With gentle hands, Peter guides me to the bed and lays me down, and I can’t help but notice the symmetry between our first time doing this, and our first time doing this now. His lips fall on my neck, in that perfect spot, and I close my eyes.

It’s like we’ve never been apart. He finds those spots on my body that make it sing like he’s been practicing this whole time, and I respond to him. His mouth leaves trails of flames across my collarbone and down to my breasts.

The sound he makes when he covers my nipple with his mouth is almost feral, and I moan because yes, it feels perfect, pleasure spiraling outward from his lips and downward and upward and I’m so wet with need that I’m squirming underneath him.

His hand falls on my chest between my breasts as he switches sides, and he laughs. “Squirm all you want, it’s not going to make me move any faster.”

So that hasn’t changed, at least. Peter always took his time during sex, and it was always amazing. The edge he has now, telling me exactly how it’s going to be, is once again a reverse of how it used to be. He always used to ask. But if he asked now, I wouldn’t know how to answer. So I sink into his confidence, and something in my mind eases.