Happily Ever Ninja(14)

“Just lay with me. I want to . . .” He sighed, squeezing me tighter before his hand caressed me through the length of the towel—my back, over my bottom, pausing at my thigh—slipping beneath the parted fabric. “I need to feel your skin.”

We lay together for several wordless minutes, his fingertips skimming over my upper back and shoulders, my thigh and hip in an absentminded caress. I curled against him and kept my eye on the mantel clock, making sure we didn’t loiter too long and neglect picking the kids up on time.

This exit and re-entry into each other’s lives never grew easier. Rather, it became ritualistic, and this first silence was a sacred part of our ritual. We’d been doing this dance for fourteen years: voluntarily leaving each other, then coming back together after a prolonged period. Usually we would lie together, cuddling in silence, until we fell asleep. But we didn’t have that luxury at present, because the kids’ dismissal time was drawing precariously near.

Unfortunately, our wordless cuddling would have to be placed on hold. I was about to break the news when Greg, without any sign or warning, shifted to his side and peeled away the corners of the towel from my chest, stomach, and legs.

“Gorgeous. . .”

I frowned, trying to watch the progress of his hands and his face simultaneously. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get you off, before I leave to collect our delightful children.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “As much as I appreciate the offer, we don’t have time for that.”

“Challenge accepted.” He placed a kiss on my chin, then traced the line of my jaw with the tip of his tongue, ending his exploration by sucking my earlobe into his mouth.

I shivered, tensing. “You just walked in the door. And I haven’t showered yet.”

“You know I don’t mind.”

“But I do.”

“Then I’ll lend a helping hand.”

I was pleasantly trapped between the couch and the wall created by my husband’s long form. I watched as he leaned away, his eyes hungrily moving over my bare skin. He gently brushed the underside of my breasts with the back of his knuckles, making me shiver again.

I sighed, wanting to protest, but finding I had no will to voice a refusal. We hadn’t been physically together since just after Christmas, seventy-nine days ago—but who’s counting?

He felt so good, he knew me too well, was too intimate with the canvas of my body because he’d been the original—and the only—artist of my desire. I loved how he wanted me.

And this was especially true, and heady, during the first few weeks after his return.

“You have three minutes.” I spread my legs and draped one over the back of the sofa, trying to keep my tone light. “You really think you can make this happen in three minutes?”

“No.” His mouth dipped to my collarbone, nipping, licking; his hand, already between my legs, his softest touch making me instinctively arch against him. “I think I can make this happen twice in five minutes, and sprint to the school instead of walk.”

“You’ll be out of breath.”

“So will you.”

I started to laugh again, but then stopped, gasping as he touched me. My chest and stomach were now tight, my limbs growing heavy with warm tension. I gripped fistfuls of his shirt and suddenly needed—needed—to feel his skin. Therefore, I clawed at his clothes, tugging the fabric from his pants and moving my fingers to his stomach.

He bent slightly away from me and grabbed my wrists with his other hand. “No, darling. We’re concentrating on you right now.”

“I need to—”

“Later.”

“No, not later—”

He covered my mouth with his, swallowing the rest of my demand, and driving away all intelligible thought. His hot, languid tongue taking and giving in an echoing rhythm. As we kissed and he worked his Greg voodoo, my breath hitched, and I was caught in the twisting beginnings of my orgasm.

He was right, of course. Five minutes, two orgasms, one right after the other. It was always this way when he came home.

Over the years I’d learned absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. The heart becomes wary, somnolent and cynical during periods of prolonged absence, burdened with cares and fears borne in solitude. However, absence does make the body greedy and irrationally amorous with frustrated need.

Greg must’ve felt or recognized the signs of my precipitous completion, because he pulled his mouth from mine and whispered harshly against my lips, “You belong to me. Say it.”

“I belong to you.” I repeated the words he craved, believing them as I always did when lost to the moment. I shut my eyes and gave myself over to it, craving the singularity of sensation, the brief halting of time and thought.