And nerves.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Nerves,” he repeated, skimming his thumbs along the sides of her breasts while his mouth continued to toy with hers. Rubbing, brushing, grazing. “When you’re not quite sure what’s next, when you haven’t worked out all the steps, or there’s a little detour. I like the nerves.”
“Why?”
“And I like the curious why.” He tugged her shirt up and off, watching the surprise—and, yeah, just a few nerves—flicker in her eyes. “I like knowing you haven’t figured it—me, this—all out.” His hands glided up her sides, over her breasts, down. “Action and reaction, right? I like your reactions.”
There were nerves, she admitted. They seemed to slither along her skin, under it, coil in her belly, squeeze around her heart to increase the beat. Everything inside her body felt soft, then sharp, loose then tangled. How could she keep up?
“We should go upstairs.”
She felt his lips curve against her throat, and his fingers trail up her back. “Why?” he murmured, and flicked open the catch of her bra. “I like your kitchen.” He shifted his feet, toeing off his shoes. “It’s warm. And efficient. I love the way you feel under my hands. Abigail.”
She fell into the kiss, headfirst, a breathless tumble that left her dizzy and weak. Seduction. Though she’d never allowed herself to be seduced—it was unnecessary—her mind recognized the sensation. And her body surrendered to it.
Craving the feel of his skin, his muscles, his bones, she shot her hands under his shirt, found the warm, the solid, the smooth. Her breath caught on a gasp when he hitched her up so she sat on her own kitchen counter. Before the shock of that had fully registered, his mouth closed over her breast.
So hot, so wet, so strong, she let out a quick cry of stunned pleasure. Later she would think the orgasm that shot through her was as much a result of the shock as the sensation. But now it caught her unprepared, left her shuddering and defenseless.
“Brooks.” She wanted to tell him to wait, to wait until she steadied herself, but his mouth was on hers again, taking her under so fast, so deep, she could only shudder and yield.
She’d never been taken before, he realized. Not like this, where her surrender was complete, not when she couldn’t separate some small part of herself to reach for control.
And God, he wanted to take her, to destroy that fascinating and innate control.
He yanked down her zipper and, half lifting her, peeled the jeans away. Giving her no time to recover, he closed his mouth over hers again, swallowing her instinctive protest. He stroked her, teasing and gentle. She was already hot, already wet, already balanced on the edge. He wanted her to ride that, hold that sensation until it overwhelmed and overcame.
He wanted to watch her as she did.
The air, so thick and sweet, made her feel drunk with every breath. The pleasure he brought her was so complete, so absolute, she seemed trapped in it, mired and steeped. He caught her nipple between his teeth, bringing her to an exquisite point just bordering on pain while he stroked that heat higher.
When she thought she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t contain it, everything went bright and free. She heard herself moan, the long, long throaty sound of it as her head dropped heavily on his shoulder.
She wanted to twine around him, curl inside him, but he angled her back, wrapped her trembling legs around his waist. And drove into her.
Fresh shock, fresh pleasure. Hard and fast and furious. A rising flood churning into the wild sweep of a tidal wave. He dragged her through it, drowned her in it, until that violent wave tossed her to the surface. She could only float there, wrecked, until he joined her.
Now, gradually, she felt his heart hammering against hers, and the rags of his breath tearing at her ear. She felt the smooth surface of the counter under her, the dazzle of the kitchen lights against her closed lids.
She needed a moment or two, just a moment or two to find her balance again, then she could—
He shocked her again when he scooped her off the counter, into his arms.
“You don’t have to—”
“Hush,” he said yet again, and carried her upstairs to bed.
She came down first in the morning and could only stop and stare. She’d left the lights on, a careless waste of energy. But she couldn’t seem to get too worked up about it. Clothes scattered the floor, hers and his.
She studied the counter with a kind of baffled wonder. She’d never understood the appeal for sex in odd or unusual places. What was the point when a bed, even a couch would be more comfortable and conducive? Though she did enjoy sex in the shower on occasion.
Obviously she’d been too narrow in her viewpoint, though she wondered how long it might take before she could perform basic kitchen duties with equanimity.
For now, she started the coffee, then gathered up all the clothes, folded them neatly. By the time Brooks came down—naked—she’d set the kitchen to rights and started breakfast.
“Seem to have left my clothes down here.” Obviously amused, he picked up the jeans she’d folded, put them on. “You didn’t have to get up this early, make breakfast.”
“I like getting up early, and don’t mind making breakfast. You have a difficult day ahead. You’ll feel better if you have a meal. It’s just an omelet and some toast.”
When she turned, he’d pulled on his shirt and was looking at her, just looking at her, with those clever, changeable eyes.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“I …” She turned away to pour the coffee. “I don’t know.”
He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist loosely, pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “Rounding third and headed for home,” he murmured.
“That’s a baseball term. We’re not playing baseball. I don’t know what that means.”
He turned her around, kissed her mouth lightly. “Yes, you do. It’s nothing to get panicked about.” He rubbed at the tension in her shoulders. “We’ll take it easy. What kind of omelets?”
“Three-cheese with some spinach and peppers.”
“Sounds great. I’ll get the toast.”
He moved so easily around her kitchen, as if he belonged there. Panic tickled up her throat again. “I’m not—” How did people put it? “I’m not built for this.”
“For what?”
“For any of this.”
“I am.” He popped bread in the toaster, leaned on the counter. “I wasn’t sure about that, until you. But I’m built for all of this. From my point of view, so are you. So, we’ll see.”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
He studied her, nodding slowly. “Maybe not on all the details. Maybe not. But I’m looking at you, Abigail, I’m listening to you, and where it counts, you’re who I think you are.”
“That’s not …” She nearly told him that wasn’t her real name. How could she become this involved, this reckless? “That’s not something you can know.”
“I know that’s not what you were going to say. I’m good at reading people. It comes with the territory. I know you’re scared of something, or someone. You’ve taken a hard hit or two along the way, and done what you can to shield up. Can’t blame you for it.”
Light poured in the window at his back, shot a nimbus around his hair. Dark hair, still tumbled from the night, from her hands.
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
“You’ve got a lot of secrets behind your eyes, and a hell of a lot of weight on your shoulders. I’m going to keep believing that one day you’re going to share those secrets and that weight with me, and we’ll figure out the rest once you do.”
She only shook her head, turned away to put the omelets on plates. “We shouldn’t be talking about this, especially now. You’ll be late for your meeting, and I have two new contracts to work on.”
