Page 17 of Respect

Her hands swept down his arms, over his biceps, to his wrists, and back to his belly, finally returning to rest together on his breastbone, on the light cover of hair just there. “Your body is gorgeous,” she mumbled.

He knew that, he worked on it, but he still loved to hear it. “Thanks. Can I see you?”

Her eyes came up and settled on his for a moment before she nodded and took one step back. He watched as she unbuttoned her flannel and discarded it, then pulled the beater off. She wore a white bra beneath it, plain but for a thin edge of lace on the cups. When she reached back to unfasten it, her collarbones stood out and made a bow across her chest.

Her tits were nice—medium-size and firm, with large, light brown nipples that canted slightly upward—and he wanted them both in his hands and mouth right now. As she tossed the bra away, as he reached to put his hands there, something else caught his attention and he paused: a significant scar on the side of her otherwise taut, smooth belly. Like something had tried to take a bite out of her.

Earlier she’d told him she had ‘hardly any’ scars from her encounter with an IED, but he’d seen now two substantial ones: on her head and here. If they weren’t from that trauma, she’d had another.

She must have seen where his attention landed, because she said, “They had to take a piece of my skull off to make room for swelling in my brain, and they sewed the piece they took off into my belly to keep it healthy until it could go back where it belonged.”

“Jesus,” he muttered without exactly meaning to.

“I was in a coma at the time, so it didn’t bother me any. And it’s pretty much why I’m still alive and my brain didn’t just explode through my eye sockets or something.”

Duncan met her steady gaze and saw how close she was to defensiveness. She was prepared for him to be disgusted. But what kind of asshole would be disgusted by a scar, especially one like this?

When he reached to touch the scar, she flinched. Duncan focused again on her eyes and asked, “Can I touch you?”

He didn’t know how or why that simple question eased her mind, but she smiled, and her relief and pleasure were obvious. “Again, didn’t bring you up here to show off my decorating.”

Duncan needed no further encouragement. He pulled her to him and kissed her.

When he’d kissed her in the kitchen, he’d been feeling the situation out, trying not to come on too strong. But she’d invited him to her bedroom, and they were half-naked. Now kissing was foreplay.

He wrapped her up snugly, pressing her bare chest to him, claiming her mouth with intent. She moaned into his mouth and threw her arms around his neck, matching his intensity beat for beat. They fed on each other like that for a time Duncan didn’t bother to track. Phoebe was a fantastic kisser, neither overly coy or self-conscious nor wild and squirmy. It was like they were dancing, taking turns leading and following. Pretty much the perfect way to make out, in his opinion.

Each join of their mouths, each feminine whimper and moan, each breath that pushed her tits tighter to him, ratcheted his need up a little more. When he felt like he’d go mad if they didn’t get naked and move on to the second act, Duncan put his hands around her ribs and lifted her off the ground, lifted her up as high as he could, until she gazed down at him, her dangling pigtails brushing his face. Her eyes were wide in her flushed face; he’d surprised her.

This was, no doubt, a one-night deal, but he meant to make an impression.

“Very The Notebook of you,” she said with a smirk.

He set her down. “I don’t know what that means, but I feel like I’ve been burned.”

“It’s a movie. A sappy romance. Margot is obsessed with it, so I’ve seen it probably ten times. There’s a big scene between the couple where they crash together and he lifts her up. I’m not much into the sappy romances, but I will admit to finding that scene pretty nice. So no burn, that was cool. But let’s both agree that it was A Move.”

“Alright, fine. I’m giving you my best stuff here, but okay. You want the standard package, we can do that instead.”

Her expression became a textbook example of devilish. “I haven’t seen your package yet. I can’t say whether it’s standard or otherwise.”

“That’s just about enough sass out of you.” He picked her up again; this time he tossed her onto her bed. She landed with a squeal and a bounce.

Remembering her scars and their origin, Duncan regretted that move at once. “Oh shit. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

She grinned. “You threw me on a mattress. I’m fine. I’m not made of glass, and I’ve been healed for years. Stop being a simp and get naked.”

“Simp? Seriously? Okay, you asked for it.” He stood at the end of the bed, got his sneakers and socks off, then his jeans and underwear. Phoebe stripped while he did, and when he was ready, she was under her comforter and holding it open in invitation.

Duncan jumped in beside her and snatched her into his arms. She laughed and snatched him right back.

“Your package is definitely premium,” she purred and reached under the cover to give it a tug. Needy almost-pleasure, like the first scratch of a maddening itch, burst through him.

“You are trouble, aren’t you?” He started to roll forward and put her on her back, but she pushed on his shoulder.

She wanted to be on top? Fine with him. He rolled to his back, and she straddled him and sat up, her hands on his chest. Her weight rested right across his hips, and his swollen, impatient cock felt her slick heat right there, almost exactly where it wanted to be. Duncan groaned and flexed beneath her.

“You know, when I was on the side of the road, getting blown around in the cold by all those assholes driving right past me, I did not think my night would end like this.”

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