A Million Different Ways to Lose You (Horn Duet 2)

Words can be misconstrued, manipulated, measured. But a touch…a touch never lies. He began to stroke my body over the thin cotton of my nightgown. The love was there, his touch worshipful. His large hands cupped my breasts, his fingers drawing circles around my nipples. Tender, light touches that drove me crazy. He teased them until they stood at attention, begging for him. I felt the suction of his mouth and my body bowed off the bed.

A wave of lust so intense broke over me that I gripped the sheets tight enough to pull them off the mattress. I pushed him onto his back and straddled his lean hips. Underneath me he was rock hard, his erection peeking out over the top of his boxers. Instinct took over. I ground my pelvis against him, and he sucked in a harsh breath.

“I miss you,” I whispered, the words backed by the longing in my eyes and voice.

His attention on me was absolute. The importance of the moment not lost on either one of us. When he didn’t make a move, I impatiently ripped the nightgown over my head and flung it off––the drive to get closer, to be skin to skin was relentless. More than ever I wanted him inside of me. As if that sacred connection could cement that we were still us, that my actions hadn’t damaged us beyond repair.

Leaning forward, I planted my hands next to his head and he reached for me, his hands skating from my waist to my shoulder blades. He pulled me down closer and kissed me. And then I felt it, the slight tremble of the hands that held me in place.

“I need you,” I murmured, my voice quivering from the struggle to contain a surfeit of emotion. “Please.” Begging was not beneath me. I would’ve crawled over hot coals for him.

His hands slowed down, his muscles stilled, every slight nuance of his body language so clear to me, so dear to me. He was withdrawing in flesh and mind and a bolt of fear raced up my backbone. It conjured awful images of him with other women, of me without him. Frantic that he was going to deny me, I kissed him roughly.

“Hey,” he crooned as his thumbs caressed my cheeks. “Easy.” His lips gently brushed mine.

“Make love to me.” Admittedly, I sounded desperate and needy. Not my best moment, but I was too far gone to care.

“Not yet––don’t worry I’ll take care of you.”

“No,” I practically shouted. “I need you––you.” And then it hit me. “You’re not attracted to me anymore? Is that it?”

I slid off his body, onto my back, and covered my face with my hands, my fingers rubbing my brow as mortification turned my skin a deep shade of scarlet. One finger at a time he peeled my hand away from my face and placed it on his impossibly hard erection, pushing it up and down its swollen length. A guttural moan rattled in his chest and surged up his throat.

“I could drill through granite with this. Does that answer your question?”

His tone, sharp and angry, took me by surprise. A most juvenile, insecure part of me felt vindicated, smug, and yet the part that could still reason knew that men could get hard by simple, physical stimulation.

“Then why won’t you make love to me?”

“It’s too soon. I want to speak to the doctor first.”

“I’m fine––” I disputed, though I didn’t get to finish. My words were swallowed up by a deep kiss that yearned to be more. His skilled fingers slipped under my panties and skated over the sensitive point at the juncture of my thighs.

My train of thought, lost. My will to argue faded away. Fire shot over my skin, radiating from where he touched me to everywhere else. My knees fell open. My hips lifted off the bed when the pressure of his fingers eased off. I whined for him not to leave me. Gripping his wrist, I dug my short fingernails into his skin, only stopping when he resumed the sweet torture and soothed me into submission.

Around and around, his fingers teased me into a frenzy. He nipped my nipple, then licked and sucked. Three fingers caressed my clit. Down they traveled and slipped inside, over and over, giving me just enough to leave me wanting more.

Between the temptation of his hard body thrusting against my hip and the sensation he stoked between my thighs, I was pulled tighter than Artemis’s bow. His mouth fastened onto my nipple and tugged in rhythm with the push and stroke of his hand. And I was lost…and lost…and lost.

Slow to build, once the climax broke over me I was shaking from the force of it, a burst that spread as quick as wildfire. I cried out his name and clawed his back, his shoulder, any part of him I could reach. He eased me down gently––so much reverence in the way he touched me it brought tears to my eyes.