Page 104 of Miami Ice

“I mean them,” Beckham says, his voice firm. “I’ve never said these words to another woman. I’ve never wanted to. Until I met you.”

“That means everything to me,” I confess. “And it causes feelings inside I don’t want to hold back.”

“What?”

I stare back at him, my gaze unwavering. “I want to have sex with you.”

“Georgie, are you sure?” Beckham asks. “I don’t want to make love to you and have you regret it later.”

I’m flooded with more emotions. Beckham is so caring and concerned about this next step not for himself, but for me. For how it might impact us and what happens in our future.

And in this moment, with all these new and wonderful feelings starting to grow inside of me, I know this is exactly what I want to do.

“When I had sex the first time, I was a teenager and curious. The experience was bad. I vowed to wait for the right man to come into my life for the next time, and I have waited years. I’m having big feelings, Beckham. And they’re all for you. I’m ready for us to go further. It’s a contradiction from what I said before. But I didn’t expect to feel the way I feel when you touch me. Look at me. Or kiss me.”

Then I do something I never dreamed I’d do tonight.

I take a step back from him and begin to unbutton my blouse. Beckham’s lips part in surprise as I slip out of it, casting it asideon the king-sized bed. I’m wearing a pink balconette bra, one that pushes up my breasts a bit to make them look bigger than they are, and Beckham’s eyes shift to my chest. His own chest rises and falls, and my pulse accelerates when I see his response to my body.

I reach my fingers around the back to the hook and undo it, letting the bra fall free. I slowly remove it, standing bare-breasted before Beckham.

“Christ, Georgie,” he whispers, his voice practically hoarse. “You’re so beautiful.”

I step closer to him, linking my hands around the back of his neck, pressing my body into his. As my pelvis meets his, I can feel not only how hard he is, but that he’s massive.

And my body grows tight and hot with this realization.

His mouth claims mine in a hot kiss, desperate and seeking. Then his hand finds my breast, his whole hand covering it and squeezing it and causing a cry to escape my throat, one that he swallows quickly with a greedy kiss.

Suddenly hands are everywhere, with each of us exploring and grasping and desperate for this intimate discovery of each other. His mouth is on my jawline. My neck. Moving down the column of my throat, where his lips press against my pulse point.

“I can feel your pulse racing. That is making me even harder,” Beckham says, his voice low.

Then he flicks his tongue there, causing me to gasp.

His mouth moves lower, to my breasts, and then he’s kissing and sucking and I’m starting to fall apart in his arms. I reach for the bottom of his T-shirt, peeling it upward, desperate to see all of him. Feel his skin and skim my hands over his athletic body.

The shirt is cast aside, landing next to my blouse.

I move back a bit, so I can take him in. I carefully run my hands over his pecs, eliciting another shudder from him. Everything is cut and muscular, and his abs are like nothing I’veever seen. Completely chiseled. His biceps are powerful, as are his shoulders. I lean in and press a kiss against his chest, then another, my hands and mouth exploring him this time.

“Georgie,” he whispers, his voice rough with need. “Don’t stop touching me.”

When I hear how much he wants me, when his voice tumbles past his lips with nothing but desire from my touch—and my touch alone—I feel empowered. Full of more big feelings.

And I know making love with him tonight is the exact thing I want to do.

I move my hand lower, down the fine trail of hair that leads to his athletic pants, and I pull on the drawstrings. Beckham’s head drops back, and a deep moan escapes him as I feel him for the first time.

My God, I’m caressing him. Something I never did in those fumble-through sex experiences back in high school.

But I’m not that girl anymore. I’m a woman, who has met a man who makes me feel cared for. Cherished. Desired.

And it’s time to make him feel good, too.

“Do you have a condom?” I ask as I move his waistband past his hips.

Another violent shudder races through him. “Yes.”

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