She remembered she’d had a minor crush on Jason Wexel, though she couldn’t quite bring his face into focus now. “I did have pizza with Jason, and about fifteen other kids. It was somebody’s birthday. I don’t even remember whose. I made it sound like a date, because that’s how it is with a teenage girl.”
“Opportunity lost.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.” He framed her face in his hands, laid his lips on hers.
Slow and easy, not impulsive or rushed as it might have been at any other time between them. Relaxed, she slid into the kiss, without nerves, without doubts. When his hands roamed down, over her shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the thrill gathered and beat, a strong, steady pulse.
Like a dance, they circled toward the bed.
“I really want to see you naked again.”
Her lips curved against his. “It’ll cost you twenty-eight dollars.”
She felt the laugh rumble through him as he eased down the zipper at her back. “Worth every penny.”
“Better make sure,” she said and wiggled out of the dress.
She stepped out of it, scooped it up, tossed it toward a chair.
He didn’t even notice the dress slip off the arm of the chair to the floor. “I think my heart just stopped. Look at you.”
And he was, she thought, for just a moment looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. Then his gaze lifted to hers again, and there was that click, that connection, the recognition before he drew her against him again.
And the feel of his hands on her skin, warm against warm, layered thrill over thrill.
She brought hers up, unbuttoning his shirt as their lips clung.
Here was Owen, tall and gorgeous. Here was his heartbeat, racing fast under her fingers, her palms. Her Owen, because on some level he’d always been her Owen, with his heart beating against her hands.
Here was the new.
He lowered to the bed with her, with Avery—compact, curvy Avery. Bright hair, bright eyes, smooth skin white as moonlight. Sensations tumbled inside him—her scent, her taste, the rustle of the sheets as she moved with him. Everything about her so familiar, and still somehow unexpected.
He linked fingers with her, pressed his face to her breast. Soft, scented, smooth.
With that hum in her throat, she arched toward him, assent and invitation. His lips brushed the curve over the lace edge, then his tongue swept under, and her fingers tightened on his.
He ranged himself over her, center to center, and again she rose to him as he kissed her, as he filled himself with the taste of her until her fingers went lax in his.
He released her hands to take his over her, over skin and silk and lace, enraptured by the surprise of her, by each new discovery.
Nuzzling at her throat, he flicked open the catch of her bra and, once again linking their fingers, he lowered his lips to her breast.
Thorough. She should have known he’d be thorough, with his lips, his hands gliding and sliding over her skin. He fired her system with that slow, focused attention to her body, with the endless patience that was so much a part of him.
Her blood swam, driving her pulse to a gallop, as he stroked her into sweet, soaking pleasure. Her breath ragged, she let herself rise, let herself open until there were no restraints, no barriers.
Just Owen.
She filled him, surrounded him with what she was, what she offered. Boundless, he thought, her energy, that quick response, that quick demand. Everything with her, so fresh, so new, yet so wonderfully familiar.
Her breath caught, released with a moan when he slid into her, when he, in turn, filled her.
Once again, it seemed his heart stopped—a stunning, breathless moment. He held here, staring down at her in a kind of wonder.
She levered up, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Her head fell back, and his dropped to her shoulder.
Slow and easy was done. She moved now, sleek as a bullet, quick as lightning, driving him past that instant of wonder into pleasure and need, into greed.
She flung reason aside, reckless and eager, to clamp against him, taking as ferociously as she gave. On the desperate edge, she curled to him as sensation careened through her, and at last, at last, swept her into release.
They didn’t so much lie down as fall back on the bed. There, sprawled together, they both tried to find their breath.
“Why,” he managed, then concentrated on breathing again.
“Why?”
Eyes closed, he held up a finger as signal to wait another minute. “Why,” he repeated, “haven’t we ever done that before?”
“Damn good question. We’re both really good at it.”
“Praise Jesus.”
With a wheezing laugh, she patted his ass. “I knew you would be. You’re the detail man. And thank you very much for not missing a single one.”
“You’re welcome, and thank you. By the way, you have a flower tattooed on your ass.”
“Not merely a flower. A thistle—a traditional Scottish symbol. That was pride of heritage,” she told him. “And it’s on my ass, as I knew that was one place my dad wouldn’t see it and flip on me.”
“Good thinking. I like it.”
On a sound of contentment, she closed her eyes. “I should be exhausted.”
“You’re not? I didn’t finish my job then.”
“Oh, you finished your job. I meant it’s got to be closing in on four a.m., after a really long day. I should be exhausted. Instead I feel good, relaxed and sleepy.”
He shifted to snuggle her in, to pull the duvet over them. “No work tomorrow.”
“No work.” All but nose to nose with him, she grinned. “Let us again praise Jesus.”
“Why don’t we have a nap, let’s say, then we can see if we missed any details the first time around?”
“I say good thinking.” She wiggled her body still closer to his, opened her eyes for a moment just to look at him. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year.”
Closing her eyes again she let herself drift away. Her last thought was her friend was now her lover. And she was happy.
He recognized the silence, the wrapped-in-cotton quiet that meant only one thing.
Owen opened his eyes, blinked them clear and watched the snow fall in downy drifts outside the window. Gotta break out the plow, he thought—but later. He rolled over, intending to wake up Avery in a way he hoped she’d appreciate, but found the bed empty.
Where the hell was she?
He dragged himself up, poked his head through the open bathroom door. He spotted her toothbrush on the side of his sink, considered that as he went to the dresser for a pair of flannel pants.
He smelled coffee—and, oh boy, bacon—as he came down the stairs.
A marching band high-stepped on his kitchen TV, snow blanketed his patio outside the doors. And Avery stood at his counter chopping peppers.
She wore a white chef’s apron over a blue-checked robe, her hair clipped back, her feet bare. He remembered how she’d looked the night before, in the sexy dress, then later in the even sexier underwear. But he realized he most often imagined her just like this—in an apron in the kitchen.
“What’s for breakfast?”
She looked up, over, smiled. “You’re awake.”
“Marginally. Why are you?”
“Because it’s nearly eleven, it’s snowing, and I’m starving.”
