were you thinking about?”
“You.”
He caressed the silky top, lingering over her sweet little breast.
“That.”
Taking the nipple between his thumb and index finger, he gently tweaked, kissing her throat and jaw and ears.
“And that,” she said.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“
Forget the shower. The sofa was closer. “Everything else,” he repeated, adding pressure to lay her down. “I better hear about this.”
She kissed him as he dropped onto the cushions; all the while he touched her breasts and hips and stomach, the round, feminine curve causing a fire hose of blood and heat and pain to rush to an already stiff cock.
“Oh, I can’t tell you exactly what I was thinking about. Too…personal.” She wrapped her legs around his, letting him take the most natural place on top of her, their hips already rocking, pulses pounding.
“Were you touching yourself?” he asked, devouring the idea of her making herself come while thinking about him.
“Maybe a little.”
Oh, the admission squeezed his balls. He slipped under the satin top to touch air-soft skin, thumbing her budded nipple to make her whole body shudder. “Like this?”
“No,” she whispered. “Nothing like this. This is better.”
He tweaked her nipple playfully, his erection slamming against his jeans, forcing him to press it against her pelvic bone. He dragged his hand lower, over ribs, toward her hips. “Where else did you touch?”
“Here.” She reached between them, sliding her hands down to rub the ridge of his cock. “You know, in my imagination.”
His hard-on damn near danced. “Like that?”
She sighed, then slipped her hand behind the button of his jeans, reaching in and closing over his hot shaft. “More like this.”
Murmuring and moaning, he closed his eyes and lifted off her enough to let her get the zipper down. He burst out, making them both suck in a shocked breath.
“Oh, it’s better than I imagined,” she admitted, stroking him slowly from top to bottom.
And better than he’d dreamed. Her fingers squeezed, slipping over the already wet tip, then all the way down, burning from top to bottom, making him throb with the need for even more.
He kissed her hard, his hands traveling everywhere, his head screaming conflicting orders to stop or go, touch or talk, think or feel, and, oh, man, just
She stroked again, the ache of pleasure and pain eliciting a low growl from his chest as he buried his face in her neck and let her take him to the damn near edge of an orgasm.
He could come in a blink of an eye. “Again,” he murmured. “Do that again.”
She did, slow and easy, and again and again until his body threatened to erupt.
His hands shaking, he repositioned himself, giving her more room to fondle him, and letting him slide her little shorts to the side and touch her soft, wet center.
She cried out softly, squeezing him harder and lifting her hips for more.
“Do I touch you in your fantasies, Tess?”
Eyes closed, she nodded, still pumping him, spreading her legs a little more. He twirled the tiny tuft of hair between her legs, then stroked the opening, slipping his finger in and out no more than a centimeter.
She bit her lip, her head going from side to side with pleasure, never missing a beat as she practically pulled an orgasm from him with her hands. He fought it with everything he had, holding back, watching pleasure rock her, sliding his finger deeper into her hot, hot body. Every cell in him was on fire, burning with the need for release.
Finally, she opened her eyes and slowed her touch, each breath a battle.
A mere centimeter and a flimsy piece of satin separated their bodies as he pressed her against the cushions, both of them naked enough to do what both of them desperately wanted. Wet, hot, they connected in every way but the only way they both wanted desperately, their mouths attached with a strangled kiss.
“In me,” she pleaded, lifting her hips so it was almost impossible not to go inside her. “I want you.”
He pulled back an inch, a sudden, aching realization floating to the front of his hormone-addled brain.
He was going to leave her, damn it. High and dry and completely alone, with no explanation except that—no. No explanation. The cruelest, most despicable act he could imagine. And he was going to do it to her.
So what? Did that mean they couldn’t…
He slammed his hands against the sofa, the noise startling her. Eyes wide, she stared at him, both of them fighting for each precious breath.
“John.” She barely whispered the name. “Please don’t make me beg.”
He closed his eyes.
She let out an uncomfortable laugh. “It’s so embarrassing when a woman begs.”
“You don’t have to beg.” He leaned down and kissed her. What the fuck kind of excuse could he make if not the truth? Anything else would crush and insult her. He needed something real, honest, or else they could…
“I don’t have a condom,” he murmured.
She made a little “O” with her mouth, then very slowly shook her head.
“I don’t,” he said. “Do you?”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “I have a library on the subject of how to get pregnant. Do you think I stock condoms?”
“Well, for protection against…more than babies.”
Taking a slow, deep breath, she pushed him up and off her, fighting to right herself. “John, I don’t have casual sex with people I don’t know very well.”
Of course this didn’t surprise him in the least.
“In fact, I don’t have sex at all, because you’re the first guy I’ve dated or liked since I got divorced, so, no, I don’t have condoms.”
He started to answer, but she put her hands over his mouth.
“The truth is, I’d bet you have a box of them in the back of your bike and at least three in your wallet.”
That was, mostly, true. Two in his wallet. He didn’t answer, and his hesitation made her close her eyes and puff out a breath.
“So you lied to me when you said you didn’t have a condom.”
Even he didn’t have a soul black enough to deny that. He just looked at her.
“Why?” she demanded with a hitch in her voice. “Why lie?”
He still couldn’t answer. Anything, any single word he spoke, could only be the truth, and he could not tell her the truth.
“You want me as much as I want you.”
“Yes,” he said, grabbing something he could hold with two hands. “Every bit as much. Probably more.”
“But something is holding you back.”
Something like a conscience. When the hell had he developed one of those?
“And I know what it is.”
He was quite certain she didn’t, but he still didn’t answer.
“It’s the baby,” she said flatly.
He flinched for a second, his guilt-ridden brain thinking she’d said babies, his babies. But, of course, she hadn’t.
“See?” she accused. “That’s what it is. You know I want a baby.”
“I know you want a baby,” he repeated slowly, like a witness on the stand dancing around the truth but so determined not to lie under oath.
