When he palms my behind and squeezes, my inner muscles clench tight, and moisture floods between my thighs. Logically, I know he won’t ease the ache in my body—there’s no way he could know how—but I want him anyway. I want his kisses, his caresses. I want him close. Most of all, I want him to want me.
My kisses acquire a wild edge. I slip my hands under his shirt and test the firmness of his stomach, his chest, his back. Even without the light, I can sense how strong he is, how fast. I am neither of those things, and I delight in our differences. When I register the hardness pressing against my lower belly, I rise instinctively onto the tips of my toes until we line up . . . just right.
He makes a hoarse sound and rocks against me, slowly. Sensation arrows straight to my core, and my knees buckle. He doesn’t let me fall. He holds me up, pulls one of my thighs over his hip, and rubs sinuously between my legs as he kisses me deeper. The rawness of the action, the friction, his mouth, it all overwhelms me.
I hardly notice when he settles me on the bed. I just know that our bodies are closer now. Closer is better. I push his shirt up, impatient with the layers of fabric between us, and he breaks the kiss to yank it off. Our mouths come back together like we can’t stand to be separated. I suppose that’s true, for now. I’m addicted to his kisses. And his taste, his scent, his skin. I slide my hands down his back, trailing my fingertips along his spine, luxuriating in the feel of him. When I encounter the waistband of his pants, I slip my fingers underneath and venture down, so I can fill my hands with the perfectly rounded globes of his ass. Instantly, I’m obsessed.
“You’re in trouble,” I say between kisses.
“Why?”
“Now that I know what you feel like, I won’t be able to stop touching you here. I’m going to do it all the time.” I’m being completely honest, so I don’t understand at first when he breaks out laughing, but I decide it is a little funny.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, and even though I can’t see him, I can tell he’s smiling from the timbre of his voice. “Touch me as much as you like.”
“Anywhere?” I ask, because I remember what happened last time.
He pauses for a moment, and then the bed shifts as he moves. I hear the zip as he undoes his pants and the thud when they hit the floor. It doesn’t make sense, but I feel intensely self-conscious as I pull my dress over my head, toss it aside, and remove my underclothes.
I shouldn’t feel this way. He can’t see me. I can’t even see me. But it’s like my mind still hasn’t accepted that the darkness is real. I’m waiting for someone to judge me, my body, my actions.
He stretches out next to me and pulls me toward him so our bodies are flush together, front to front, skin to skin. The rigid length of his sex burns against my pelvis, but I ignore it.
“You feel so good,” he whispers, running his hand up my leg and over my hip.
“So do you.” I touch his face, his neck, and rest my palm against the center of his chest. “I can feel your heart beating. It’s fast. Are you nervous?”
“A little,” he admits.
“Me, too.”
“Do you want to stop?” he asks.
“No.”
Brushing his lips softly against mine, he whispers, “Should I stop talking and get back to kissing you then?”
“Yes, pl—”
His tongue strokes between my lips, and he kisses me with so much feeling that my toes curl. For ages, that’s all we do. We kiss until we can barely breathe. We touch each other, but our hands remain in safe places—arms, legs, stomachs, backs. Yes, I grab his butt because I’m an indecent woman, but I don’t have the nerve to do more than that after last time.
When I shift restlessly, his length slides between my thighs and rubs over my sex, and he groans against my neck as his body stiffens.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Breathing roughly, he nuzzles my neck and sucks on my earlobe before saying, “If I show you how I like to be touched, will you do the same?”
“Can’t I just touch you?”
He makes a frustrated growling sound and presses a hard kiss to my mouth. “I want us both to enjoy this.”
“I am.” Sex with Julian was work—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Because I was always trying to be something other than what I was. This is . . . something else.
“You know what I mean,” Quan says. “Talk to me, or show me, anything.”
“I can’t. I want to. For you. But I can’t. It’s embarrassing, and if anyone—”
“Anyone what? It’s just the two of us here, Anna.?