“Yes. You’re painting a stereotype of what I should be and that’s unfair.”
I hate to admit this, but he’s right.
He holds his hands up in a gesture of placation. His face has become serene again. The twitch of vulnerability is gone.
“I’m not here to fight with you, Liz. I’m just being brutally honest. I’m attracted to you. Hell, I’m more than attracted to you . . . you have no idea how much.”
His eyes burn when he says this, and a deep shudder – an erotic thrill – goes through me all the way right down to the center of my pubis. I can feel my inner muscles clenching.
Oh my God. A man like this . . . desiring me. Maybe even . . . dare I say it? And this frightens me a little . . . obsessed with me.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to live up to that. The immense pressure I’m going to face – of being desired, of being wanted, of not measuring up when he finally discovers who I really am . . .
Alex leans over, his face softening. “You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now.”
The air around me stills, as if it’s been sucked into a vacuum. I can hear my heartbeat very acutely in my ears – ba dup, ba dup, ba dup – a staccato of anticipation in the dead calm.
Hell. I want to kiss him so badly too.
So badly like you have no idea.
It’s like that first moment I met him. Call it kismet or universes colliding and all that schmaltzy stuff – but it does happen, and it’s happening right now, and two people can really make an intense physical connection that can only be considered love/lust? at first sight. And I don’t quite know what is happening again, only that I’m swept away in its tide.
He’s out of his chair and upon me. I know he says he isn’t going to jump me tonight, but here he is – it’s like he can’t really help himself around me, and that makes me feel powerful and desirable and crazy with lust and everything I shouldn’t be. He’s pulling me up to my bare feet, and I’m kissing him back. Our lips are locked in a warm, moist embrace, and his tongue is fiercely probing through my parted ones and searching my mouth.
His arms are around my back, my waist, and they are roaming everywhere up and down my body. They are on my breasts, where he cups them beneath the fairy light material, and down to my waist again, and I’m getting so hot and bothered and in need.
My hands are traversing the length of his body too – his sides, his back, almost to his buttocks underneath his pants. I’m so aroused and abandoned, and his lips are so intoxicating and heady . . . and everything south of my navel goes molten and in hunger and in a terrible, terrible craving to be filled –
Then suddenly – inexplicably – he stops.
What the – ?
His soft lips withdraw from mine.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I know I said I wouldn’t do this to you . . . but I can’t help myself. I’m sorry.”
For answer, I do the only thing I can physically do under my feverish circumstances. My hormones are already raging in crazy currents all over my body, and it’s like a fire has been ignited inside me – a spark that is being fanned by the winds of my frantic, frenetic longing.
I can’t stop even if I wanted to. Oh help me, God.
I grab his hair and kiss him back. Longingly, fiercely, and with every ounce of erupted passion I have inside me.
I think we are in so deeply as to be considered gone.
We shed our clothes, not caring who walks in at that moment – Arabella or the pilots or someone else who just happens to be listening at the door. (And I’m sure they are.) He rips a little part of the delicate fabric that makes my dress in his haste to get it off.
“I’ll get you another one. I promise,” he says.
At this moment, I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life with him naked.
For answer, I unbutton the rest of his shirt and pull it out of his pants. I fumble at his belt buckle, whose clasp just refuses to come off. He grins and takes his hands off me to undo it himself. He unzips and drops his pants. I can barely keep my hands off his revealed torso – all gleaming lines and muscle and eight-pack. He’s wearing a pair of white briefs, and it’s deliciously tented in the front (oh my God, I did this to him . . . me!) and it’s suddenly off too and down his firmly toned legs –
My mouth dries when I see his ready and fully tumescent member
which is
so ripe and bursting with sap and goodness and promise and everything wonderful and scary and
He gathers me in his arms again, and I realize that my brassiere and panties are off too, and the only things I’m wearing are my diamond choker and earrings. He’s kissing me again, and down my throat . . . my neck, my collarbones. These are deep, wet planted kisses, and he trails his mouth (and tongue!) down to my breasts.