Ceasing her struggles, she glared up at him. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Is that what you wanted to hear? He slept with her twice a day, but he never touched me. Me, the sexless one. I’m the cook, the cleaner, the little money-maker, but I’m not—” When she couldn’t continue, Mike kissed her. “No, please let me go.”
“Why should I let you go?”
“Because I don’t want—”
“Don’t want to make love with me? Like hell you don’t. You’ve wanted me from the first day we met, but you’ve acted as though you hated me. I didn’t—”
His words were silenced as his hands roamed over her body, over her breasts, down her thighs, her throat, her arms, between her legs. But Samantha stood still, rigid, unmoving, willing herself not to respond to him.
“How long can you hold out against me, Sam? If I do this?” Bending his head, he kissed the top of her breasts, and it was no difficult matter to pull the stretchy fabric down over one breast as he gently took the peak in his mouth. “Or this?” Moving his mouth downward, he caressed her breast with his thumb.
“Please…” she whispered, eyes closed, head back against the wall.
“Please what? Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything you want, anything.”
“Then let me go.”
“Anything but that.” His lips moved down her body, down to her waist, then back up to her face while his hand moved under her top, his long fingers on the skin of her stomach. “Please, Sam. Don’t hold back.”
“I can’t.”
Kissing her ear, one hand on her breast, the other inching up her thigh, his hand slowly moved up under her skirt. “What do you want? Tell me. Gentle? Sweet?”
Suddenly, he pulled away from her and looked at her face, at her closed eyes, at the expression of control she was wearing, as though she was determined to contain herself.
“No,” he said. “You want what I want: Sam, I need you.”
At that he grabbed the front of her panty hose and pulled at the same time that he somehow managed to unfasten his trousers and drop them to the floor.
It was at the feel of Mike’s hands on her bare flesh that made Sam’s years of pent-up desire come to the surface. One moment she was standing still, unresponsive, self-contained, and the next her hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere on him, tasting his skin, licking, sucking, clawing.
For just a moment, he was startled by her, startled by her sheer hunger, then his mouth was on hers, his hands grabbing at her, responding to her with the same need that she was exhibiting.
Abruptly, Samantha stopped moving as a sense of déjà vu overtook her. Looking up at Mike, she half expected him to be Richard and to be wearing that bored look, that half-asleep look, that Richard had always worn when they were in bed together. But he wasn’t her ex-husband, this man was Michael, and the expression on his face was of desire and longing and need and…caring, caring that she receive as well as give. He looked like she felt.
Understanding her thoughts, Mike said, “It’s me, Michael Taggert,” as he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back to apply his teeth and lips to her throat. “And I’m a different man.”
When he picked her up to set her down on his manhood, Samantha nearly cried out, but she wrapped her legs about his waist, locked her ankles, and hung on as he pounded into her, her back against the wall. Stroke after deep, deep stroke, she held on, her nails biting into the skin of his back, her mouth sucking on whatever part of him she could reach.
When he finished and gave her one last thrust before limply collapsing against her, his head on her shoulder, she almost screamed in frustration, but she kept her noises to herself and hugged him to her.
Pulling away from her, Mike looked into her face as though searching for an answer. “Sorry, baby, I wanted you too much. The next one is yours.”
Although she had absolutely no idea what he meant, she liked it when he kicked his trousers off and carried her up to the bedroom to stand her by the side of the bed. She liked it when he undressed her and kissed her breasts. When he removed his shirt and held her, skin to skin, he kept looking at her, as though he expected something from her.
At last, frustrated because she had no idea what he wanted, she said, “Michael, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how.”
“Baby, there is no how. There’s no right or wrong, except maybe making your partner feel bad.”
“I don’t want to displease you. I want—”
Very gently, he kissed her breast. “You like that?”
“Yes. Yes, very much.”
“Tell me if I do something you don’t like.”
Kissing her all the while, he ran his hands over her thighs, but he still seemed to want answers that she didn’t have. “But I like all of it,” she said at last.