Being so close to him, having his eyes, mouth, attention, and body all focused solely on me literally makes me shaky and lightheaded.
He breaks away from my lips to move down to my throat, the contrast of his soft, wet tongue and rough beard igniting my senses. Sighing with pleasure, I turn my head to the side as he tugs the fabric of my shirt away to rain kisses across my collarbone, then to my bared shoulder.
“Can I take your shirt off?” he whispers.
I’m so caught up in him and all the tingles I’m feeling that all my worries about my body from earlier go right out the window.
I nod yes.
My T-shirt is slowly lifted up over my head, and he stares down at my bare chest, slowly trailing his finger down between my breasts to my stomach. I’m stilled, my flesh quivering beneath his touch. His palm moves to my waist, then skims up over the side of my thin rib cage.
His expression is intense. Unreadable. His gaze tracks his hand as it lightly moves across my breast.
Exhaling, he kisses my lips tenderly before lowering his head down to the base of my throat—inching farther to my chest as his hand lightly covers my breast, enticing my nipple to harden against his palm.
“You can touch me.” His voice is rough, on the edge of pleading. “I want you to.”
Where do I even begin to touch a man like him? I ache to tangle my fingers through his long hair. I’m overcome with that urge almost every time I look at him. I want to run my hands over his muscular back, down to his narrow waist. I want to yank off the towel and squeeze his amazingly hard butt cheeks.
Wrapping my arms around him, I part my shaky legs, and his body settles on top of mine. Hip to hip, chest to chest, flesh to flesh.
I’m all but buried beneath the breadth of him, reveling in his warmth, the smoothness of his skin, the unusual eroticism of all the dark tattoos pressed against me.
Our lips meet again, our breathing ragged. He slides his hand under me, cupping my ass, pulling me into him.
Spreading my legs farther apart, I grab the towel and slowly pull it from his hips and gasp when his cock presses against my thigh—rock hard, searing with heat, tipped with moisture.
For a brief moment I wonder if that’s tattooed as well, since 90 percent of him is.
I fight the urge to look. If it’s a tat of a snake or some other such ropey creature, I’ll never be able to look again.
Leaning up on his elbows, he stares down into my eyes, brushes his fingertips across my forehead, then my cheek, then my lips.
“I love you… I want you.” He kisses me softly. “Do you…?” The fiery emotion in his eyes finishes the question for him.
“Yes,” I whisper.
I do. I’ve daydreamed about making love with him. A lot. I’ve watched him from the window when he’s in the pool swimming laps, captivated by the fluid movement of his body. I’ve gone onto YouTube late at night and watched videos of his concerts, surprised at how fast I became a fangirl—craving his voice, entranced by his swagger across the stage, the toss of his long hair.
We kiss fast and slow and deep.
Inch by inch, he roams my body with his lips and hands. Kissing, licking, nipping. As he moves over me, his hair feathers over my flesh, caressing me. It’s an unexpected pleasure, and now I believe that I really did beg him never to cut it, long ago when I was the first Ember.
The sensations he’s gradually awakening in me are dizzying and new. I’m flushed, wet, and breathless, reaching to touch any part of him.
Our bodies fit against each other perfectly. My mind may not remember us, but my body does. It knows where to go, how to move with him. Closing my eyes, I wrap my arms and thighs around him, craving more, not wanting this to end. We moan together when his cock presses against me through the thin fabric of my damp panties.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, moving his hand languidly between us, skimming over my stomach and down between my thighs.
Our lips meet hungrily as he slips his fingers beneath my panties and gently caresses, eliciting waves of quivering ecstasy. My body trembles at the intimate touch. It’s new and surprising—exciting and scary—and it hits me that psychologically, I’m a virgin again.
The journals and the romance novels are words on a page. They pale in comparison to this kaleidoscope of desire, emotion, and angst thrumming through me.
My heart beats wildly when he slides my panties off and tosses them onto the floor with his towel.
The room suddenly feels amazingly quiet. Or maybe the pounding of my heart is drowning out all sound. I’m hyperaware of everything—the scent of his cologne, his deep breaths, his hand caressing my inner thigh, inching up to that part of me that’s still quivering.