Page 90 of Unmatched

“And you’re sure this is what you want,” I say, tracing my lips over her collarbone, her sweet vanilla scent almost enough to drown my doubts.

She doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she does something spectacular. She brings one hand to my waist, slips into my pants, and starts to stroke me. Before I even realize it’s what I want. I am already so hard; my cock turns to steel under her fingers. I back her up until she hits the wall, and I grind into her hip, feeling utterly primal. She wraps her other arm around my neck, and my hands are everywhere under her shirt, pushing the fabric up. Our eyes meet, and I pause, searching for any sign of reluctance. In answer, she locks her lips warm and sweet over mine. I slip the shirt the rest of the way over her head, and then she’s standing in just her jeans and the most tantalizing bra I think I’ve seen—aside from the night at the hotel. Its champagne color is almost invisible against her skin, nipples showing clearly through sheer fabric that makes her breasts look like they’re floating.

Her lashes flutter and she looks at me like she’s where she’s always wanted to be. “I want to keep learning...about both our bodies.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Anton looks like he might devour me with just his eyes when my shirt hits the floor, instantly validating my decision to change into this bra. I pull his shirt off in turn, taking a moment to run my hands over his skin, showing my appreciation for his rock-hard abs and chest. If anything, this intensifies his gaze, sending an unexpected thrill between my legs. He tackles my lips with his, and in response, I attempt to wrap my leg around his waist. Which sets us unfortunately off-balance. We stumble into the bookshelf, nearly knocking a collection of young adult novels and several baseball trophies to the floor.

“Ouch,” he mutters, but there’s a spark in his eyes, and if he’s in pain it sure doesn’t show. Instead, he pivots us toward the more accommodating bed. My suitcase lies where he’d left it on the navy blue bedspread, but he yanks it to the floor and out of the way with one hand, laying me gently in its place.

Our lips meet again, and then he pulls back to gaze at me, but as he does, there’s another uncertain flicker in his eyes. I think I understand. Because staring up at him like this, I feel it too. This moment, this scenario, is familiar. Obviously, we’ve stayed in this room, in this very bed, dozens of times. I was never comfortable being intimate in his mother’s house before. But that’s not it.

It’s our positioning. Him, looming over me, me lying under him. We’re both thinking about how this has gone in the past. Me bracing myself while he pushed inside my body, my mind drifting away to my Costco shopping list, employee issues, or the sink of unwashed dishes. Whatever I could focus on while waiting for the experience to be over, rather than remaining present and letting myself sink into the moment with him.

But this time, instead of checking out and pulling away, I make a point of holding his gaze. I reach up, running my fingers through his hair, keeping us in constant contact. Trying to stay attuned to the cues from his body, his breaths, his movements. How his mouth seeks mine and he seems to lean into every touch—but also, the way my own body responds. How my skin tingles when he draws his fingers along my waistline, and something tugs deep in my core as his eyes meet mine. It’s overwhelming, trying to take it all in at once, but I notice an immediate difference. We haven’t even taken off our pants, but there’s a connection between us I’ve never felt, like we’re moving as one instead of two separate parts.

His lips are tracing along my jawline, fingers working to undo the button on my jeans when we both register the sound. A low, steady hum quietly fills the room. He pauses to look up at me, his expression still warm, but his brows draw in. I shrug in response, my mind preoccupied with the heat of his skin and woodsy scent. Until he sits up, and I see where his gaze lands. My suitcase, discarded on the floor.

His eyes return to mine, and as my brain finally processes the hum—no, the vibration—I feel the color rise in my cheeks.

“Lydia,” Anton says with a raised brow. “What have you got in the bag?”

My breath catches. This is almost exactly what I was asked at the airport. I’d thrown the rabbit into my carry-on just before I left the house. A little burst of optimism that we might end up in a moment just like this, where we could revisit its pleasure, continue what we started back home. But later, I wished I’d never packed it. This vibrating bag has nearly done me in today.

Anton studies my face, his expression hovering somewhere between craving, amusement, and concern. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I just ran into some trouble with that at airport security.”

His eyes widen at first, but as he processes, the corner of his mouth tugs a little to one side. “You did?”

I don’t think I can bear for him to laugh. Not after the TSA agents stood there sniggering at me. I cover my face with my hands, sure it’s the shade of a traffic light by now. A flashing red one.

But then a pair of gentle hands pull my fingers away. I can tell he’s right in front of me. I’m afraid to peek at his face, but when I finally steal a glance, I’m caught off guard by the smoldering look in his eyes.

“Tell me what happened.” His voice is low and gravelly.

“They—they made me turn it off.”

“How?”

I glare at him. I am literally dying re-living this mortification, and he wants me to rehash the details? But then my eyes drop to his lap, where his arousal is obvious.

Is he enjoying this?

I moisten my lips. “They asked me to open the zipper and show them where the sound was coming from. Like they thought I had a bomb.”

His eyes meet mine with the same searing gaze they held when I handed him the rabbit back in Denver, and I get the distinct impression he wishes he had been at the airport to watch me do this. A hot feeling surges through me as I kind of wish he’d been there, too.

I cross my legs, my breaths coming faster.

“Perhaps you’d better show me,” he says.

I swallow hard, reaching for the suitcase zipper and sliding it open just the way I did this afternoon. My fingers drift over the smooth fabric of the black satin nightgown I packed, then close around the soft, silky silicone. I fumble with the switch to turn it off, then hold up the hot-pink toy for his inspection, just as I did for those merciless TSA agents.

“Definitely dangerous,” Anton whispers. “I’m going to need to confiscate that.”

He holds out his hand, and I place the rabbit in his palm like it’s something forbidden. I wonder briefly, is this role playing? Is that what we’re doing now? This day has spiraled so far out of my comfort zone, but I’m surprised to admit I’m kind of enjoying it now.

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