Intoxicating!. Kathleen O'Reilly
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ego-bolstering was, she decided to bring him crashing back to reality. “Which is why I put the fear of God in you and you jumped?” she asked, as nicely as she could have when her words dripped with sarcasm.
He shook his head. “Not the fear of God. Something much more basic.”
His voice changed at the end, turning rough and textured. In fact, she was so caught up in this newly discovered sexualvoice experience that she almost missed the words.
Almost. Her stomach pitched and then steadied, and she wondered if he knew what he’d just done. She didn’t dare look up, but she sensed the change in the air. It wasn’t the salt of the sea or the hint of black fruit in the bouquet of the wine. This was heady and strong, and sent bright bursts of fever rushing through her.
“So this is okay?” she asked, her breath thin and forced, coming from freshly squeezed lungs.
His hand curved around her waist, his fingers stroking softly, straying into the no-man’s-land between her bare back and the elastic of her swimsuit. Her body shivered, nerve endings descending into pleasured chaos.
There was something so private, so personal about a man’s and woman’s gazes meeting, and Catherine didn’t do it often. People thought she was shy, but cowardly was the better description. In her chest, her heart thudded painfully, and slowly, questioningly, her eyes raised to his, her Odysseus. Desire darkened the gray to black smoke, and he didn’t look lonely. Not anymore. Catherine couldn’t look away. Not now. Probably not ever.
Her hand reached out, touching the cotton shirt that covered his chest. One touch, to feel him. To touch him at last.
Her palm rested flat on him, over his heart, and she could feel the heated blood pounding there.
Warm flesh was so much better than art. The hard contours of his body weren’t cold granite, or marble, but overflowed with muscle, bone and blood that called to her. She considered herself an expert on the male body in theory, but she wasn’t even close when it came to the real thing. Right now, she was shaking like a kid. Gently, he inched her toward him, until her whole body was aligned with his, sternum to sternum, pelvis to pelvis, woman to man.
Bliss.
Then he lowered his head, covering her lips with his own.
Oh.
Oh.
She felt his mouth tremble, or was that hers? Catherine wasn’t a virgin; she’d been kissed before, but not like this. Hesitation and reverence melted together under the heat in the air. Automatically she moved into him, his arms closing around her, wrapping her in twin bands of strength and steel.
Catherine sighed with relief, and when her mouth opened, his tongue eased inside, all hesitation gone. He stroked the inside of her lip, slipping back and forth until the drugging rhythm was ebbing through her blood, igniting her skin, pulsing between her thighs.
Her hands explored and she couldn’t believe that this man, this masterful creation, was alive. A momentary doubt stole into her brain, but some things didn’t lie, and the thick erection burning her thigh was proof enough. She wanted that proof inside her.
He broke the kiss, lifting his head, his breathing as ragged as hers, and she thought he was going to leave her.
“You’ll stay with me?” she asked, needy, the doubts stealing back.
His face was tight with tension, his fingers biting into the curve of her hip, but she didn’t care. She wanted his touch, and now the need overcame fear, overcame pride, overcame dignity. Her body needed this.
“Bed.”
Catherine nodded because intelligent speech was impossible. She led him to her room, her nerves simmering, threatening to boil.
He was going to love her, touch her, kiss her, caress her, and she was dizzy with the thought of it. That amazing body that was currently hidden by his clothes was going to be hers. At least for one night.
“Can I undress you?” she asked, the words out before she could think, but how could she think? How could any sane woman think?
“That’s what you want?” As if women didn’t ask to undress him every day. Heckuva job, Catherine.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He was going to think she was obsessed. A nympho ready to pounce, and okay, she wanted him. Badly. But there were other forces at work inside her—namely the desperate desire to see him naked to know if her currently overworked imagination was right.
“Catherine, you don’t have to apologize for everything.”
“I’m—No, I’m not sorry. I wanted to see you because okay, this part is embarrassing, but not exactly for what you’re thinking. You know that I draw, and, well—you have a perfect body for sketching.” Her cheeks burned, and maybe now he thought she was weird, but weird was oodles better than sleazy.
“Really?” he said, as if he didn’t think she was weird…or sleazy. In fact, he sounded…pleased.
“Absolutely. Certainly.” And then, because he was watching her so thoroughly, she drew his T-shirt over his head, struggling to be the artist she told him she was. “See this line here. It’s the axis of your body, your dawn line, perfectly dividing the détente muscle, those are those…uh…little ripples.” Her index finger traced the path, and she nearly sighed, but that would totally snooker the “dedicated artist” image that she was going for.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You should. I do this for a living.”
“Really?” he asked, teasing her.
“Not this, but—” she drew a horizontal line across his shoulders, feeling the heavy muscles jump wherever she touched “—this.”
Her palms felt the hard planes of his chest, absorbed the soft whirls of hair, the tight nipples, and she knew that she could never capture that vitality and strength on paper. Ever. Only in her hands.
She followed the trail of hair down, lower, and she knew the instant that he stopped breathing. Daringly, her fingers delved beneath his shorts, and then she stopped breathing, too.
But her curiosity wouldn’t let her stop. Slowly, the soft boxers slid down hard thighs and then…
Then…
Oh, she wasn’t going to look, but she had to look. She had to see, and heaven help her, she gasped.
Yes, like a total dilettante, she gasped.
For a second she could do nothing but gaze upon him with deep-seated lust, then her eyes studied his face.
He didn’t look happy. He looked stressed.
“Can I see you?” he asked, and she nodded once before she realized that she needed to steer his expectations toward something resembling reality because she wasn’t anywhere close to the perfection that he was.
“I’m not nearly as well-proportioned.”
He drew down the straps of her bathing suit. “That’s an entirely subjective statement. I think you’re very well-proportioned.”
“I weigh too much.”
He slipped the suit off her hips and along her legs and looked at her for a long time, that comprehensive gaze making her nervous. He wasn’t missing a thing. Not the half dozen cupcakes that resided happily on her butt, or her mushy thighs that didn’t get nearly enough exercise or the pooch in her belly that four million sit-ups could easily cure.
“See?” she answered, completely sure he was going to tell her to put her bathing suit back on. In fact, she was so sure he was going to say that, that she reached down to pull it back over her mushy thighs, until he grabbed her hand in a death grip.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
Catherine