remarkably
liberating now.
My nerves have nothing on my desire to lose myself in this amazing
man, who is like no one I have ever known, who I will probably never see
again. Determined to enjoy every minute with him, and every inch of him
while I’m at it, I sink into the kiss, my tongue caressing his, drinking him in.
Boldly, I slip my hands under his shirt, my palms flattening on hard muscle
beneath warm, taut skin. Touching him is wonderful, addictive. I am
trembling inside, aroused in a way no man has ever made me feel.
Confidence builds inside me and my hand strokes a path down his
zipper. His hand goes to mine and he tears his mouth from mine, his fingers
move from my neck, tangling in my hair, tugging me backwards with a
gentle, erotic force. “How old are you?”
The questions shatters a little part of me not even fully realized. This
is not a reaction a girl wants when touching a man. “Why does that
matter?”
“How old, Amy?”
“Twenty-four.” I don’t even know why I answer. I shouldn’t have
answered.
“How many men have you fucked?”
I gasp. “You can’t ask me that.”
“I just did. How many?”
I don’t like where this has gone. I don’t like how I suddenly don’t
know if he thinks I’m a virgin for my limited experience or a hussy for my
fast actions. Either way, this is not an escape anymore. I try to shove away
from him, but his grip in my hair doesn’t loosen. “Let go,” I hiss.
“This was a mistake. I don’t know you. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
Great. Now he thinks I’m a virgin. I can’t get this right. “I mean, I do. No. I
don’t. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
“It’s quite clear you do not do this kind of thing,” he says, releasing
me, and I hate how much I wish he had not, after what he has made me
feel. Or how relieved I am when he plants his hands by my head, caging me
as if he doesn’t want me to escape. “But I do, Amy. I do this kind of thing. I
have short, quick, well-protected affairs with women who get that I’m not
going to be around tomorrow. Women who do not care enough about who
I am to find out my name or how much money I have.”
My defenses flare, verging on anger. What is he accusing me of?
Being a virgin, a slut, or a money-grubber? “I didn’t try to find out about
you. You made me read the Wiki page. You made me.”
“I know. I wanted you to know me and to trust me. I still do.”
I soften, confused. I stay confused with this man. “I don’t understand.
You just said…and I know and…why are you, and I and…” My God, I’m an
educated woman and I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
“The same reason I showed you my design on the plane.”
“Which is why?”
“Because against every rule I have ever set, I wanted to.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Then let me be more clear.” His cheek slides over mine, his whiskers
scraping erotically over my delicate skin, his lips pressing to my ear. “You’re
a beautiful woman who deserves to be properly fucked, which I conclude
from both your actions and answers to my questions, that you have not
been. I want to be the man to remedy that. I want it very much.” His arm
wraps my waist, shackling me to him as if he fears I will get away, his free
hand stroking down my hair, as he huskily adds, “Probably too much.” He
moves then, his intense blue eyes staring down at me, searching my eyes. “I
don’t know what you’re running from, but I know you’re running.”
My heart jackhammers. “No, I’m not. I’m not.”
He brushes his lips over mine. “And I’m not asking you to tell me
why,” he says, rejecting my denial. “But just know that I have every
intention of making you forget everything but what it feels like to have my
tongue and my cock buried inside you.”
My lashes lower and heat pools low in my belly, then settles hard
between my thighs.
I’ve never even had a man use
liberating now.
My nerves have nothing on my desire to lose myself in this amazing
man, who is like no one I have ever known, who I will probably never see
again. Determined to enjoy every minute with him, and every inch of him
while I’m at it, I sink into the kiss, my tongue caressing his, drinking him in.
Boldly, I slip my hands under his shirt, my palms flattening on hard muscle
beneath warm, taut skin. Touching him is wonderful, addictive. I am
trembling inside, aroused in a way no man has ever made me feel.
Confidence builds inside me and my hand strokes a path down his
zipper. His hand goes to mine and he tears his mouth from mine, his fingers
move from my neck, tangling in my hair, tugging me backwards with a
gentle, erotic force. “How old are you?”
The questions shatters a little part of me not even fully realized. This
is not a reaction a girl wants when touching a man. “Why does that
matter?”
“How old, Amy?”
“Twenty-four.” I don’t even know why I answer. I shouldn’t have
answered.
“How many men have you fucked?”
I gasp. “You can’t ask me that.”
“I just did. How many?”
I don’t like where this has gone. I don’t like how I suddenly don’t
know if he thinks I’m a virgin for my limited experience or a hussy for my
fast actions. Either way, this is not an escape anymore. I try to shove away
from him, but his grip in my hair doesn’t loosen. “Let go,” I hiss.
“This was a mistake. I don’t know you. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
Great. Now he thinks I’m a virgin. I can’t get this right. “I mean, I do. No. I
don’t. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
“It’s quite clear you do not do this kind of thing,” he says, releasing
me, and I hate how much I wish he had not, after what he has made me
feel. Or how relieved I am when he plants his hands by my head, caging me
as if he doesn’t want me to escape. “But I do, Amy. I do this kind of thing. I
have short, quick, well-protected affairs with women who get that I’m not
going to be around tomorrow. Women who do not care enough about who
I am to find out my name or how much money I have.”
My defenses flare, verging on anger. What is he accusing me of?
Being a virgin, a slut, or a money-grubber? “I didn’t try to find out about
you. You made me read the Wiki page. You made me.”
“I know. I wanted you to know me and to trust me. I still do.”
I soften, confused. I stay confused with this man. “I don’t understand.
You just said…and I know and…why are you, and I and…” My God, I’m an
educated woman and I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
“The same reason I showed you my design on the plane.”
“Which is why?”
“Because against every rule I have ever set, I wanted to.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Then let me be more clear.” His cheek slides over mine, his whiskers
scraping erotically over my delicate skin, his lips pressing to my ear. “You’re
a beautiful woman who deserves to be properly fucked, which I conclude
from both your actions and answers to my questions, that you have not
been. I want to be the man to remedy that. I want it very much.” His arm
wraps my waist, shackling me to him as if he fears I will get away, his free
hand stroking down my hair, as he huskily adds, “Probably too much.” He
moves then, his intense blue eyes staring down at me, searching my eyes. “I
don’t know what you’re running from, but I know you’re running.”
My heart jackhammers. “No, I’m not. I’m not.”
He brushes his lips over mine. “And I’m not asking you to tell me
why,” he says, rejecting my denial. “But just know that I have every
intention of making you forget everything but what it feels like to have my
tongue and my cock buried inside you.”
My lashes lower and heat pools low in my belly, then settles hard
between my thighs.
I’ve never even had a man use
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