He encircles one nipple with a finger that moves so slowly it feels cruel. Every millimeter makes me gasp. I can only inhale again and again and again until my lungs rise to meet his fingers, begging for release.
He nudges the neckline of my top down, popping one pebbled, rosy breast out and his mouth—oh, sweet heavens.
That mouth.
“Andrew.” His name comes out of me in a gasp and a shiver, as if my vocal cords and muscles were unable to discern which biological system to respond with. His mouth plays tricks with my skin as his spare hand slides up between my thighs, where all the blood in my body has pooled and is beating a timpani, a bass drum, and a djun djun all in concert.
I have, singularly, become the pulse point of the universe.
A sudden need to feel him makes me push up against his hand, my fingers at his belt buckle. Unable to see, I use touch as my guide, the hard metal a familiar rectangle, my mind recreating the process for undoing the belt as my hands do my imagination’s work.
The belt undone, I release the button, unzip him, and before I can touch him he’s kissing me again, the cold night air shocking my wet nipple as the fire of his arousal enflames me, the ice of his brief abandonment making me tug at his shirt tails, pulling up to give me access to more of him.
I need to see him. See everything. Feel everything. Inventory it and ascertain that this is real. This is happening. I am not dreaming or hallucinating. We’re in his bedroom, on his bed, and about to make love, naked and deliciously private.
“Amanda,” he rasps, his lips against mine, his erection pushing against my thigh, his body moving in short, slow strokes against me in a preview of what is about to unfold. His mouth moves against mine with a steady spiral up, each kiss more intense than the one before, his bare belly against my clothed one, the sensation of him over me nothing short of divine.
He reaches up and under me with swift, nimble fingers, the clasp separating and freeing me. I sit up and he watches with eyes that take in everything as I unbutton my top, peeling off my shirt and leaving me there with the loose bra dangling.
I haven’t been naked, in the moonlight, with a man in so long that this feels like the first time.
It’s not, but it feels that way.
He takes care of the next step, skimming my arms with his palms, riding up my shoulders and dispatching with the lingerie with a flick of his wrist, leaving me topless.
Without another word, he unbuttons his last bit of his shirt, pulls it off, and grabs the hem of his concert t-shirt, his thick arms reaching up, the cloth covering his face for a moment, giving me a complete view of his upper body on display without his eyes watching me.
And that is the moment when I become utterly, overwhelmingly self-conscious.
He’s gorgeous. Cut and broad, wild and perfect, with the textured skin of a man who spends hours a day with a personal trainer. I know what his legs look like in bike shorts, and I’ve caught glimpses of him over the past two years in suits, with and without the jacket, but having Andrew McCormick’s half-naked body within inches of mine and on display like this makes me freeze.
This man is about to make love with me. I want him to explore and enjoy all the intimate places in my body and heart that can only be accessed by my yes. And my yes is throbbing through every nerve cluster, each blush, all the flushed skin on my chest and in the wet, wild parts of me that know we have a huge bed, a magical view of the ocean, and all the time tonight to do delicious, breathtaking, pleasurable things to each other.
“Take off your skirt,” he whispers. Andrew is on his knees, his pants undone, hands by his side and inches from me. Towering over me, he’s radiating heat and want. His breathing is controlled, and his words make me reach behind me to unzip the skirt, as if there is no other choice, as if I have to do as told because I have already surrendered to him, even if my mind hasn’t quite caught up to what my body knows.
I shimmy out of it, wearing only my panties now, and he crawls over me, leaning me back, connecting our bodies only with a kiss that stretches me from toes to ears, turning me into a tingling, breathing soul that knows only sensation and that seeks to understand the world via his touch. His taste. His sound. His gaze.
Him.
“You,” he says between kisses and hands, heat and pressure, friction and fire and strokes and oh—“are more beautiful in person than I’ve imagined all this time.” With arms like corded steel, he pushes up, impossibly up, and the light from outside catches his face.
I see truth in his eyes.
That truth gives me permission to touch him, to splay my palms against the thick muscles at his waist, to roam and rove and close my eyes and just feel. He’s mine to touch and his hitched breath tells me he likes this. I curl up enough to lick the base of his throat, then kiss to his chin, the rasp of a day’s beard making me shiver.
Will he? Does he...? My self-consciousness burns off me, like the heat of the morning sunrise evaporating the dawn’s dew.
That mouth separates from our kiss and he bends to my breast, sucking in one nipple as one hand reaches between my legs. I’m wetter than wet and while my mind goes on vacation for a few seconds to some ecstasyland I didn’t know I possessed, he renders me completely naked.
And then stands, blissfully joining me.
The long, warm stretch of his nude body against mine, thick hair against my own smooth skin, is a study in contrasts.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say, as he crawls into bed and presses against me, but my tone isn’t one of disbelief. It’s one of confirmation.
“Then I need to up my game, because if you’re still not sure this is real, we have quite a bit of work to do.” His mouth begins a slow descent between my breasts, over my belly, and to the promised land.