Sweet child of mine. This man. My man.
I bre
athe deeply, hoping the cool air filling my lungs reaches other parts of my body.
“Food,” I say meaningfully. “Eat the food I cooked. First.”
I reach under the dress and place my hand over his to halt his progress. When our fingers tangle at the juncture of my thighs, the breath flooding my chest stalls, hovers around my heart, and squeezes. The first time he touched me this way, we coaxed my body to orgasm together. He watched me come. It was a sensual storm that broke over every part of me, raining on my heart. Growing my trust. Nurturing an intimacy I’d never known with anyone else. Any vestiges of playfulness disappear from his expression, and what takes its place on his face, in his eyes, steals my breath.
Is he remembering, too?
“What?” I ask, mesmerized. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
And can you never stop?
“I was thinking of the first time I saw you come,” he says, searing me with a look so hot, so loving, I couldn’t deny him the moon if he asked for it.
“Okay. One kiss,” he whispers, inadvertently saving me from my hussy tendencies. “An anniversary kiss.”
“One kiss,” I agree, like I wasn’t about to give him the cow, the milk, and the whole damn farm.
“Until later,” he says.
I tuck that promise away in the wanton places where my body aches for him. He dips to capture my lips, and a moan rattles my ribs.
Lawd, he tastes even better than I remember.
How is it possible that I want him, need him, love him more every time we touch or kiss?
He ravishes my mouth while his hands roam my body possessively—squeezing my butt, caressing my arms, gripping my thighs through the silk skirt. His hands slow, still. He smiles against my mouth.
“This isn’t the dress, is it?” His question breathes over my lips. “Cotton candy pink?”
I nod, and his gaze pours over me, taking in every inch of the silk and organza confection I gave my all to create. I worked on this dress until my fingers bled. My blood is in the stitches, woven into the seams. A frown pinches between his brows.
“We’re just having dinner at home,” he says. “I thought you were saving it for a special occasion.”
I tip up on my toes to link my wrists behind his neck.
“You are my special occasion, Mr. Ross,” I whisper, baring my soul in the look I offer him.
The frown clears and that slow smile, the one that starts in his heart, creeps into his eyes and makes its way to his mouth. He bends and rests his temple against mine, and must hear the faint sound of Billie Holiday still playing in my ear. I’d blocked out the music once I saw him, but now I tune back into the lyrics, and they woo me again. I smile and slip one wireless bud out of my ear and into his so we can listen together.
“I like,” he says, turning his mouth down at the corners and looking impressed. “Good choice. The Lady herself.”
“This song reminds me of our first kiss.”
He closes his eyes, a look of concentration arresting his features. He nods and tightens his hands at my waist, urging our bodies into a subtle sway to the music.
“We’ve never danced before.” It strikes me as both silly and vitally important. A first when we’re celebrating a night of firsts.
“When you move in, we can dance every night.” He pulls back to catch my eyes. I lower mine first. He’s alluded to me living with him before, but I want to be sure it’s the best thing, the best time for Simone. He’s her father, and I know he’s more in touch with her mental and emotional state than I am, but I can’t feel responsible for her going off the rails again. Simone likes me now. We get along great, but moving to San Diego is one thing. Moving in with them? Would that be too much for her?
“We’ll see.” I flick my lashes up to catch his eyes. “I’ll be in LA half the time anyway. I’ve been looking at a few apartments near La Jolla.”
“Stop looking,” he insists, frowning. “I want you here with me.”
I slide my hands over his shoulders and down his arms to twine our fingers, hoping to distract him from something we might not agree on yet. “I got you a gift!”