Page 49 of Brazen Mistakes

His smile eases my anxiety, the way it always does, and I gain just enough of my boldness back to not just stand there like an ice-locked snowman.

“Good morning, sugar.”

Swallowing back my fear, I pull off my sweatshirt and sweats, standing there in just the beautiful purple silk slip. “I, ah, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to see the gift you got me. You know, like, in person or something.”

His sleepy grin turns into something closer to hunger as he takes me in.

“I hope it’s what you imagined. It fits well. If you don’t, I guess, I don’t know, we could try something different?”

He reaches over and snags my wrist, dragging me to his bed before spinning me once and pulling me down beside him, one knuckle trailing from my shoulder down my side, resting at the valley of my waist. “You’re so much better than my imagination, sweetness. Somuch better.”

The urge to hide floods me, but the way he’s looking at me, his eyes locked to mine, it’s impossible to do anything but bask in his attention. “Was this a good surprise?”

“The best surprise.” Running his hand farther down, his fingers brush against my thigh, tracing the line where the lace meets my skin.

Unable to just lie there, I reach for him, run my fingers over the bridge of his nose, brushing up into his hair, following the straight rows divided out two days before. “You know, I haven’t even given you a real kiss since you got back.”

“Then that’s something that needs to be fixed.”

The kiss is tentative, delicate, and some part of that ever-humming angst calms as I sink into him. We kiss, not as a precursor to the next step, but as a destination, as an action to be savored and enjoyed for its own merits. Our breaths syncing, our hearts beating to the same rhythm, our tongues meeting for a lingering dance.

His hands slip under the silk, inching up the fabric until it pools at my waist, his hand warm as it explores my skin. I do the same with his shirt, eventually lifting it over his head, his body warm and welcoming with every touch.

His hands bracketing my waist, he pulls back. “Too much? Too fast?” I ask, the ease vanishing.

His soft smile calms me a little. “No, sugar. It’s perfect. I am just trying to figure out exactly what I want to do with your lovely self.”

“Do we need a plan?”

“Maybe not a plan. But I’m almost twenty-two, and I’ve never done anything like this. I guess I’ve got a bucket list at this point.”

“Ooo. I’m a huge lover of lists. What’s at the top?”

“That’s the problem. They aren’t ranked.”

Running my hands down his chest, I grin when his breath hitches as I graze his nipples. “Okay then. We can do whatever sounds best to you. We’ve got all the time in the world to knock things off your list.”

“Hmm. I like the sound of that.” His hand brushes the outside of my hip as his lips meet mine, and I let myself explore his skin, wanting to learn what makes his breath catch, makes his heart skip under my palms.

There’s an ease here that I didn’t realize I was missing, a break from the chaos that lives inside my skull, and I sink into it.

RJ rolls us so I’m on my back, his soft smile above me. “I both want to take this thing off of you and keep admiring you in it.”

“It is very nice. It feels nice, too.”

“So I did a good job with my not-a-Christmas present?”

“You did amazing with your not-a-Christmas present. But now I feel like I should get you something.”

He kisses me softly. “Nah, you’re gift enough.”

We kiss for longer, my fingers exploring the shape of his shoulder blades, the rhythm of his ribs, before he pulls my arms from the slip and tugs it down from my chest, his breath catching like he’s unwrapped the perfect gift.

With a careful knuckle, he traces one nipple, then the next, as I hold my breath, afraid to fracture this moment.

He hums, soft and low, before dipping down and kissing the top of one small swell, then the other, his breath tickling my skin. Gentle kisses feather over me as I melt into the mattress,my bones soft with his simple worship of me. I thought I was impatient, needy, but RJ brings out my peace.

When he finally laps at my nipple, I groan, my hips canting up into his as he hisses against me. “Shit, Clara.”

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