Page 9 of Close Knit

I slip out of my Mary Janes and miniskirt. Goose was right; I do look like a sweater with legs. But he didn’t seem to mind. He spent the whole night staring at my lips, finding any excuse to touch me. I adjust the collar of my sweater off my shoulder, hoping to give it more of a boudoir-shoot vibe than a casual-frock look.

When I return to the room, he’s staring out the window at the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco sprawling beautifully below from the fortieth floor of this one-bedroom suite. I hadn’t realized how high we were, having spent the entire elevator ride up with our lips locked together. His tuxedo jacket is draped over a chair in the corner of the room. There are no personal belongings in sight besides the workout clothes in the bathroom and a small rollaway carry-on by the closet.

“Hi,” I say, and he turns.

Even in the darkness, his stark features steal the breath from my lungs. A well-defined, square jawline hidden beneath unkempt scruff that hasn’t fully filled in on his face. A sun-touched glow on his olive-toned skin. It seems he spends a lot of time outdoors. Thick and slightly arched brows sit above his deep-set eyes, which are an intense golden brown.

“Fuck.” He splits the word in half before tugging off his bow tie and tossing it onto the bed.

“Did you mean Duck?” I giggle, attempting to cover up the blush stinging my cheeks with a smile.

“Look at you.” The low light from the nightstand lamp covers his face in shadows as he strolls over to me. He props one arm against the wall behind me, and his muscles ripple beneath the white fabric of his shirt. Those arms could probably crush my skull in half, and I’d thank him for it.

I nervously wrap my finger into the hem of my sweater. “I have to be honest; I actually haven’t done something like this before.”

“Are you…is this your first—”

“Oh no,” I clarify. “I’ve had sex plenty of times before. Many times. Lots of sex!” My voice roller coasters up. “Okay, maybe ‘plenty’ isn’t so accurate, but I know what I’m doing. I just…”

He caresses my cheek and uses his thumb to lift my chin. My neck has to tilt all the way back to meet his gaze. He’s tall and commanding. There’s a skew in his strong nose that I hadn’t noticed earlier, as though it’s been broken before. I wonder how that came to be. Everything about his gruff appearance is endearing, albeit frightening.

“Are you nervous? We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I am nervous,” I admit. “But I want to dothisvery much. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to be, um,disappointed?I mean, it would be great if we could both feel satisfied.”

The escalating heat between my legs makes me certain that finishing isn’t far off on the horizon, but my fluoxetine and self-sabotaging thoughts have been known to make intimate moments a struggle.

My college boyfriend, the first and only, always felt frustrated with how long it took to get me there. Which turned into a terrible cycle of faking it to cushion his ego.

Not tonight.

If I’m knocking on heaven’s gate, I want the god in front of me to carry me there and thrust me over the threshold.

He throws on a nefarious smirk and leans closer, his breath on my lips. “Don’t worry, all your feathers will be ruffled appropriately.”

“Thank you,” I whisper and rest my hand against his pecs. Pure muscle beneath his button-down. “You’re very…” I swallow. “Firm.”

He cocks a brow at me. “And you smell delicious.”

We kiss again, but my kneecaps still turn to Silly Putty when he breaks the seam of my lips with his tongue and groans. He actually groans into my mouth.

My fingers rush through his slicked-back brown hair. I tug at his nape as our kiss deepens. The coarse scruff on his jaw scrapes against my skin as he travels down my neck. His lips clasp around the edge of my collarbone, and he sucks until releasing with a loud pop.

All right, if I was turned on before, this brought out a whole new level of euphoria.

“I really like that,” I moan as he pulls my sweater aside and kisses along my sternum. “And that…oh, and that, very, very much.”

He looks up at me, still crouched down. “Keep telling me what you’re thinking,” he says. “It’s turning me on.”

Yeah, I’m officially being hurled out of my comfort zone. Screw it.

He plucks me up as if I weigh nothing and sets me on the bed. I fall on my backside, keeping my upper half propped up onmy forearms. He climbs above me like an animal playing with its food.

I arch my back and press my breasts toward him. “Kiss me more, but here.” I nudge my nose to my chest. He helps me out of my sweater, minding it with gentleness as he drapes it over the nightstand. The act is small and likely meaningless, but each of my vertebrae melts.

“The seams of your sweater were definitely worth seeing,” he says, smirking. I’m left in my underwear, while he remains fully dressed.

“It’s called a mattress stitch.”

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