I thought about which article of clothing to remove even as I let my eyes move over his chest approvingly. I’d been dreaming about that torso for weeks, ever since he made his shirtless, just showered entrance the morning of my hangover. I’d thought about what I wanted to do when or if I actually had it within my possession.
I blinked, hard, and tried to focus on the foot-stool we were using as a table. I pressed my thighs together for no reason whatsoever and ignored the building warmth in my lower belly.
Quinn’s soft voice pulled me from my mounting aimless frenzy, “Janie… sock or shirt?”
I met his gaze abruptly and wondered if he knew what I’d been thinking; but looking at his face was almost worse. We were two minutes away from midnight. He wore a very serious expression and his eyes were freaking smoldering again, moving between mine with what felt like violent concentration.
I huffed impatiently. “Fine. Neither.”
He raised a single eyebrow, “Neither?”
I tilted my head to the side, removing my gaze from his, allowing my hair to curtain my face, and leaned forward, pulling my bra straps from my shoulders and through my arms. Then I unclasped the bra and, like magic, pulled the white lacy brazier from my body without removing my shirt.
Never mind that my shirt was a thin, white, tank top which was basically see-through. I didn’t want him thinking he’d won just yet or that he could guess my moves. I was quickly learning that a bottle of wine convinced me of all sorts of fantastical things, not the least of which was that I had moves.
I tossed the bra over my shoulder, leaned back against the side of the bed.
“Ok, deal the cards.” I said without looking at him, he was too distracting. Instead, I pulled fingers though my hair as I stretched and arched my back.
I heard his breath catch.
I looked up.
His eyes were no longer smoldering; they were now suddenly and forcefully ablaze and he was gritting his teeth, watching me as I stretched. His look told me I was steak and he was a tiger and that made me dinner and dessert.
“You shouldn’t do that.” The dark heat in his gaze, set of his jaw, and white knuckles of his fists betrayed the force of his concentration. He was concentrating… really, really hard.
I stilled my movements and froze mid-stretch, “Do what?”
“That.” His words were ragged, “Don’t do that unless you’re finish playing with me.”
I licked my lips, finding them suddenly dry and my eyes moved hungrily over his form.
In truth, in that moment, I didn’t remember what we were playing for, which may have explained why I suddenly no longer had any desire to continue to the game.
Then again it could have been the impaired judgment.
I let my hands fall gradually to the carpet on either side of my thighs, my hair crashed over my shoulders and down my back. I licked my lips again, watching him and his tightly reigned reaction with wide eyes. Slowly, slowly I righted myself to my knees and, without plan or forethought, pushed the ottoman to one side. Despite what I thought were measured movements, the cards spilled off the makeshift table and on to the floor.
His eyes followed me with intensely guarded attentiveness as he sat perfectly still on the couch. I crawled over to him and knelt between his legs. I lifted then rested my hands lightly on his bare thighs for balance. He flinched when my skin made contact with his.
“Quinn.” I whispered his name. I don’t know why I was whispering but I suspected that my vocal chords were incapable of cooperating, “Quinn-”
Abruptly, he wrapped the long fingers of one hand around my neck and, before I could think or react, he dragged his mouth over mine then ransacked. He was fervent and wet and hot and the warmth in my stomach fluttered and twisted until the pressure between my thighs started to ache. I pressed my knees together again and clenched, flexing my thigh muscles.
His mouth pulled away from mine and began alternately biting and sucking and kissing my neck, the scruff of his eighteen-hours-between-shaves was pleasurably painful and each skillful stroke of his tongue soothed the scratches left by the stubble.
I closed my eyes against the sensations and then his hands and his mouth were everywhere at once and I think I lost consciousness.
Let me clarify that last statement: I think my alcohol-saturated forebrain lost the ability of conscious thought but my lower brain- the Id, the part that is associated with automatic responses and instinct and pleasure seeking behaviors and wanting ice cream for dinner every night- that part may have slipped my forebrain benzopines so it could assume control and have its way with my body. For purposes of simplicity, I will call that part of my brain Ida.
And Ida did have her way with my body. Let me make that perfectly clear.