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“Oh, Willow.” He hugged her to him. “Nothing’s going to happen to us.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“We don’t have to rush.”
“We don’t have to wait,” she countered. If they waited, by tomorrow her sensible self might return and nix the whole thing. She simply couldn’t bear that thought.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, her eyes inexplicably moistening. Then she kissed him, pouring her heart and soul into the kiss. She felt like she’d known him forever. She’d always pooh-poohed the notion of soul mates, her scientific mind rejecting a notion that couldn’t be measured or proven. But if soul mates existed, she suspected she had found hers.
She didn’t need to know his name. She didn’t need to recognize his face. She knew this man on a deeper, elemental level.
Still locked in a kiss, Hank scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the kitchen. She thought they were going to the bedroom, but they didn’t make it that far. He stopped near the sofa and set her down.
Her dress was already half falling off. She shrugged out of it, and it pooled at her feet. She noticed, in a detached sort of way, how odd it was to be standing in a man’s apartment in nothing but her underthings. But she wasn’t embarrassed. The strangeness of it felt stimulating.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
Cold was the furthest thing from her mind. “No. Don’t stop.”
He nuzzled her neck as he unhooked her bra, struggling briefly with the fastener. She was glad he hadn’t just flicked it open one-handed. She liked to think that he hadn’t unfastened hundreds of girls’ bras before her. Of course, he would have more experience than her. Everyone did. Still, she wanted their lovemaking to be novel for him, as well as her.
Her bra landed on the floor. Then everything below her waist—slip, stockings, panties—were whisked down her legs. He pushed her onto the sofa so he could pull off her shoes, too. And she was gloriously naked with only her long hair to cover her, like Lady Godiva.
Not that she wanted to cover herself. Hank’s frank visual perusal of her body was like turning the heat up on the stove. He yanked his shirt the rest of the way off. Belt, pants, boxers, shoes, all dispensed with just as efficiently as he’d gotten rid of her clothes.
Oh, he was beautiful. Tan all over except around his hips. Just a little bit of blond, curly hair on his chest forming a rough diamond between his flat, brown nipples. And a scar near the center of his chest, still red and puckered.
Then she looked lower, at the evidence of his arousal, and she was glad she was sitting down because she really did feel faint. She wanted to touch him, to see how really hard he was, to feel him pulsing with desire. She settled for holding out her hand to him, beckoning him to lie with her on the sofa.
“I have to get something first.” He surprised her by turning and walking away. For the second time that evening she watched his butt as he exited the living room. Only this time it was a naked butt, and all she could do was sigh. In a few moments, those buns of steel would be hers, all hers. She quivered again.
He returned mere seconds later and set something on the floor by the sofa. Willow realized he’d gotten protection and felt even better about him. She hadn’t even thought of birth control, ample evidence of just how far gone she was. Completely insane.
She still didn’t care.
The sofa was big and wide, so there was plenty of room for them to lie side by side. Hank kissed her some more as he stroked and kneaded her breasts, pausing every now and then to kiss her nipples, teasing them to hard peaks with his clever tongue. The stimulation was almost too much for her. She made strange sounds in her throat as he stroked her belly and then the dark curls of her mound. Her entire concentration became focused on those few square inches of her body as, with each stroke, he grew bolder, inching closer to those once forbidden areas. Each time he dipped a finger to caress the soft folds between her legs, she gasped. And then he was gently probing, exploring, as tension built inside her. It felt as if she were breathing in gallons and gallons of air and forgetting to exhale.
All it took was one innocent brush against the ultra-sensitive nub of her sex, and she exploded. Wave after wave of ecstasy poured over her, shimmering outward in golden ripples. She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and pressed it over her own face to stifle the screams, so his landlords wouldn’t come running in the mistaken belief she was being killed.
Only she was dying, in a sense. Petite morte, that was what the French called a sexual climax. Little death. She’d learned that in some literature class, but it only now made sense.
Hank slid his hands underneath her shoulders and hugged her to him, grinning with obvious delight.
“Proud of yourself, are you?” she said when she could again form words. “That was a bit sudden. I would have waited for you, you know.”
“Simultaneous climax is overrated. Maybe even a myth. I prefer going one at a time. That way I can enjoy yours, as well as mine.”
She threw one leg over his, bringing his arousal into close contact with her. “Then let’s move on to yours.” She spoke the words boldly, but she was still a little apprehensive.
He kissed her, a sweet, soft kiss, then reached for the packet on the floor. In moments, he’d sheathed himself.
He coaxed her legs open, not rushing, ever patient. Perhaps he could sense her slight tension. But soon his languid strokes to her thighs and belly relaxed her. And when he moved atop her, she didn’t even blink when he slid inside her, smooth as silk.
No pain. Not even slight discomfort. Just the exquisite sensation of fullness, of completion.
Then he began to move, and it wasn’t complete at all. It was just starting and it got even better. With each stroke, she felt him more deeply.
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