She took a breath, and slowly let it out. She wanted. Oh, how she wanted. But. “Please not yet,” she begged. “Wait twenty-four hours, wait just a little bit longer and after you hear—if you still want me—” Ha! She was clearly swimming in the realm of the inconceivable. “—then I’d—I’d love to go to bed with you. Mine or that awful hide-a-bed you’ve been sentenced to.”
“No” was the gentle response. “It’s now or never, Delaney. We’re almost done is the thing. This is our one chance, I think. And it’s not an ultimatum. I want you—badly. But I’ll jump into traffic before pushing you into sex. I just—I want you. So much. Even if it’s only for a little while. Even if it’s maybe a lie. I want you until we have to go back to our lives.”
She saw his point, and it made sense. Whether he was punished for another week or a decade, eventually he’d want to get the hell away—he likely wanted to get the hell away now—and he’d put as much distance as he could between them. Eventually he’d go back to what was his and she’d go back to what was hers, and one of them would have had a narrow escape, and the other would have to live the rest of their life knowing they destroyed their own happiness for pride.
She knew, just like he did. No question: This was their only chance. She’d have to live on the memories; she’d have to make that enough.
“Yes,” she said, and reached for him.
Forty
She went right into his arms, and it was a revelation, it was the best thing ever, it was all contradiction, and pure Delaney: She was soft and firm and gentle and urgent and sweet and sharp. She had him out of his clothes faster than he believed possible, then pressed her hand against his bare chest and pushed. He fell back on the bed, then propped himself up on his elbows to watch her make short work of her clothes: She yanked the sweatshirt over her head and her lovely apple-size breasts bounced free
(no bra oh my God this might be over the second she touches me)
and she shucked off her jeans and kicked off her shoes and wiggled out of her gray hip-huggers, a panty and color he had never found erotic until this moment. Then she climbed on top of him and he caught her around the waist.
“Wait, socks? You’re leaving your socks on?”
“Shut up,” she breathed, and kissed him through his giggles. He put his arms around her and then stroked down, cupping the firm globes of her ass and going lower, until …
“Hey! That— You’re tickling!”
“Purely a side effect,” he grunted, getting ahold of her left sock and—nope, lost it—wait, there it—ah! “No fair,” he growled as she nibbled and kissed the skin over the pulse in his throat.
“Very fair; I gave consent for sex, not sockless sex.” Her hand slid down
(oh God)
and she found his length just as his hand closed over her other ankle. She clasped him and gave him a firm stroke, then used her thumb to swipe across the wetness at his tip; he groaned into her neck and groped blindly for the sock.
“Split the difference?” he managed, and she laughed and jerked her foot out of his grasp.
“One on and one off? You’re a filthy, filthy man.”
“None of this should be sexy,” he observed. “They’re goddamned tube socks, the least sexy socks in all of sockdom. And you wear old-lady underwear.”
“I wear comfortable underwear, you fucking whiner. Walk around all day with the lace of a G-string up your crack and then tell me how much fun it is.”
“No, no! If I gave the impression I was complaining, I’m sorry. Your clothes shouldn’t be sexy, but they are. I shouldn’t want a tricky bitch like you, but I do. And you shouldn’t be with an asshole like me, but you are.”
She groaned and her fists bopped his shoulders, lightly. “Are you trying to torpedo the mood?”
“No! It’s just happening,” he admitted, thinking, What are you doing? Why are you fucking this up?
“Shut up,” she suggested, “and kiss me back.”
So he did. And it wasn’t just glorious; it was excellent advice, too. Her mouth bloomed beneath his like a dark flower, and he could feel her nipples tightening against his chest. He was a tit man, always had been, and Delaney’s were outfuckingstanding, firm and sweet like Anjou pears, with dark pink nipples. She pulled back so he could palm them, and the feel of her tender skin in his hands, and her gray gaze on him, almost made his eyes roll back. She was, in a word, exquisite.
“Condom?”
He nearly shrieked in disappointment. “In my wallet. At the bottom of Lake Como.”
She grinned down at him and sat up. “S’okay. I’ve got a couple in my bag.”
“Thank God,” he said, possibly the most sincere he had been in twenty-eight years. “Really. Thank … God.”
She hurried into the bathroom and he had the extraordinary pleasure of watching her go; she was all dark hair
(the waves tumbling about her shoulders, the sweet dark triangle of her sex … ummmm…)
and pale skin studded with freckles. Her hips swelled from a narrow waist; her legs were long and trim.
She came back holding a condom aloft in triumph
“Ta-dah!”
which made him laugh. “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” he said when she climbed back on top of him. “I mean, you are just top to bottom the whole package.”
“Awww. You say the most nonsensical things.”
“That wasn’t my best,” he admitted. “It’s getting kind of hard to mink. Think.”
“Yes, well.” She grasped his prick in her small warm hand and he shuddered and bit back a groan as her hand slid up.… and down … and back up. Slowly. So goddamned slowly. He wanted her to stop. He wanted her never to stop. He wanted her to … Um. Do something. Or nothing. Huh? “Your brain’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Buh,” he agreed. “Um. Come down here. Might die. If I don’t kiss you s’more. ’Kay?”
“I don’t want you to die,” she whispered, bending and giving him her mouth. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
He put his arms around that small pretty waist and pulled her in so closely that she gasped for breath, and it still wasn’t enough. He rolled until she was on her back and licked the tender spot behind her ear. She stiffened
(careful, careful)
and he pulled back. “Is this okay?”
“Tickles,” she said, and shivered when he did it again. “Um. I like that.”
“Good. We’re only doing the things you like. Yes?”
“Oh, yes. But I’m not made of glass. You don’t have to baby me.”
“I’m not. I’m cherishing you. I’ve thought about this a lot in the last few days and I don’t want to rush.”
“I kind of want to,” she confessed, reaching around and lightly scratching his back and then his ass. “I’ve been thinking about it, too, y’see. And then, when you’ve rested, we can go again.” She bit his earlobe. “As many times as you like. ’Til morning, when we have to … be ourselves again.”
“Oh my God.”