And with that, he keeps his word, all hands and mouth and tongue and taste and sighs and moans and cries of pleasure and release that come from two years of not knowing. We make up for lost time. Again. And again.
And again again.
Remember Sex Math? Oh, yeah.
And this game?
We both manage to win.
* * *
I have a confession to make.
I have never spent the night in a man’s bed.
I wake up in a total panic, my heart slamming against my chest like a bear whacked a bees’ nest and all the bees are trying to escape in one big buzzing wall of fury, synchronized in their brutal attempt to leave. I’m covered in sweat and my legs are sticky.
Why do my hips ache?
And who is this two-hundred pound, six-foot muscled furnace in bed with me?
“Amanda?” he asks, sitting up, bed head smashing his hair against one side of his face, eyes squinty with sleep. In bright daylight, this close to him, his eyes are even browner. How is that possible? “What’s wrong?” Warm hands float to my naked back, rising up my shoulders in a gesture that is supposed to comfort me.
Except I’m in a panic because of my stupid naked-in-public dream.
And now I’m naked in public.
For real.
Sort of.
Last night floods my memory, how Mr. Flesh Furnace here used that same mouth that is smiling at me to make me arch up and press against it for more, how that tongue made my thighs shiver, how those hands that gently rub my back elicited sounds from me that involved octaves I’m pretty sure the human throat can only access during orgasm.
Orgasms.
My whole body goes tingly as I reach for the sheet and pull it up over my breasts.
“I’m fine. Just a dream.”
His hand rides down over my chest, jarring the sheet loose from one breast. “Your heart is racing. Must have been some dream.”
I’m blinking over and over, my face frozen as I try to relax and lower my shoulders. My neck is tight with tension and he’s next to me, sitting up, and oh, yes. He most certainly is naked, too.
Daylight is a blessing and a curse.
“It’s the same dream I’ve had almost every night since I was five,” I admit. I’m not sure why I tell him this. Maybe actually being naked makes me feel like it’s safe to talk about dreaming of being naked.
“Whoa. Same dream almost every night for nearly twenty years?”
“I know.”
“That’s intense.”
I can’t stop looking at him, distracted now. He dips his head down to force me to catch his eyes.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Have I mentioned the fact that I have never, ever spent the night at a man’s house? What am I supposed to do right now? The Walk of Shame never involves the sun. The sun is most certainly out right now, impishly watching as I fumble my way through this morning-after stuff.
Andrew takes care of the what do I do next? question by kissing me. This is a slow, deep kiss that I start to pull away from because, hello, morning breath?
And then I don’t care, because I melt into the bed as he doesn’t care, either. I follow his cues. If he wanted me to leave, this would be awkward and weird, right? He’d be up and showered and drinking coffee, and I would rush to get my clothes on. We would pretend the night before had been just one of those things, and I would depart with that blinking sense of confusion that comes from having a one-night stand and not knowing quite where to compartmentalize the emotions attached to the carnal event.
But that is not happening right now. Not one bit.
This is the kiss of a man who enjoyed last night thoroughly, of a man who is in no rush to separate from me, and as my hand reaches down to stroke his ass and more, I encounter ample evidence of his intentions.
I am following his cues, all right, and he is presenting one very big one right now before me.
“My goodness,” I whisper, hand wrapping around his delightfully awake shaft. “Is this breakfast in bed?”
“Oh, God,” he sighs as I offer my variation of room service, burrowing under the covers to give him a little of what I got last night. “You are perfect,” he adds in a tight voice, which loosens considerably a few minutes later when he finds his own special, lower octave.
He starts to return the favor and it occurs to me that this could all happen again. That last night wasn’t an aberration. That he wants more.
And just then, a buzzer sounds in the apartment.
“What is that?” I ask as Andrew’s head lifts up from under the sheet with a groan of frustration.
“That is the building concierge, buzzing me.”
“A package?”
“No,” he groans, rolling off the bed and walking to the bathroom. Ah, the view. The view. I didn’t know an ass could have that many muscles in it. He comes out of the bathroom wearing a thin silky robe and saunters over to the bed, planting a kiss on my forehead.
“Then what?”
“Someone realized my phone is off and they’ve resorted to this.”
“Oh,” I say in a small voice. He reaches for his pants and pulls out his phone, turning it on. It buzzes in fits and starts, like a vibrator with a battery that’s dying.
Not that I, uh, know what that looks or sounds like.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself. “Two hundred and forty-seven texts. My phone can’t keep up with all the notifications.”
Ouch. And I thought it was bad when my mother—oh, no.
My mother.
“Can you hand me my purse?” I ask. He finds it in the living room and brings it back, eyes glued to his phone screen.