His body stills against mine then he drops forward, resting his head on my chest. “Fuck,” he repeats. Stroking his hair from his forehead, I kiss the top of his head. Turning, he puts his chin on my chest and says, “Be careful. I can get used to this.”
“It could be habit forming,” I reply.
He helps me down, holding my arm as my legs adjust. After a few minutes in the bathroom, I come out and see him lying on the couch. I crawl under the blanket and snuggle to him. Our breathing hasn’t regulated yet, though it’s calmer than before. I rest my ear on his chest, loving the sound of his thumping heartbeat.
A few minutes pass before I peek up at him and whisper, “I really lost my virginity junior year in the parking lot after at a Puddle of Mudd concert.”
His smile shows his struggle not to laugh. “You lied about losing your virginity?”
“I was embarrassed that you’d think I was a slut for being seventeen, and worse, having bad taste in music.”
“You slept with me just hours after we met, so there’s that.”
“Nice,” I reply with a giggle, hitting him on the chest.
“And I’m definitely judging you by your choice in music.” He pulls me close and kisses the top of my head. “But you’re still fucking sexy as hell and I have a feeling your musical taste has improved since then.”
“It hasn’t. I still have one of their CD’s that I sneak and listen to sometimes and I have a couple from this little known band called The Resistance.” I smile against his chest, rubbing my finger over his abs.
“You already know I think that band sucks. I hear The Rolling Stones might tour. If they do, I’m taking you, so you can hear real music.”
“It’s a date.” Leaning my head back on his forearm, I ask, “Wanna fuck again?”
“You had me at fuck.” He moves over and kisses me with gentle pressure.
This round we take our time, reacquainting ourselves in a new way, learning each mole and scar, the sex torturously slow, but amazing. I feel everything—all of him inside of me and all of him above me, learning all I can about the two sides to this man who’s trying to be all he can for me.
Rolling on top, I rock back and forth, savoring each time he hits that special spot buried deep inside. His eyes stay open, watching me, his hands running over my hips and up to my breasts, kneading them. I lift up, but he pulls me back down, grounding me to him in more ways than just physically. Time passes with exaggerated ticks on the large watch wrapped around his wrist, a subtle reminder that we have tonight, only tonight and to make the most of it.
Though I want this to last all night, it doesn’t. The power of our attraction, our needs being met, and feeling too good to last, we end up in another heap of satisfaction.
“You’re really fucking fantastic,” he says, holding me.
“Best sex ever.”
“I don’t just mean the sex.”
Oh. “I feel the same about you,” I say, trying to be open without freaking him out. “You want to move into the bedroom?”
“Yeah. It will be more comfortable.”
Lying in bed together, facing the window where The Strip beckons with colorful signs and lights, he has his chest to my back. His finger traces my tattoo, covering even the smallest of details hidden in the design. “This is the sexiest tattoo I’ve ever seen,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Did you sleep with the artist?”
Rolling onto my back, I run my hand down his neck and over his shoulder, stopping on his flag tattoo. “Why do you want to know that?”
“The lines are clean and the shading impressive. The way the colors blend like the ocean and sky. He took his time with it and he knew your body well enough to play off your curves.”
Rubbing his cheek, I say, “I didn’t sleep with him.”
“Did you fuck him?”
I swat his shoulder. “No. I didn’t sleep with him or fuck him. But I shopped around. I did the design and had it made into a temporary tattoo and lived with it before I ever laid down on the table.”
“You designed this?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you do for a living?”
His interest is genuine, so I tell him the story. “I was partying with friends one night three years ago. We were doing tequila shots and I started pretending, in my drunken state-of-mind, that the lime kept saying bite me.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Dalton sits up, staring down at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
I sit up, pulling the sheet up to cover my chest. “I’m not kidding.”
“You designed the Bite Me Lime?”