Page 40 of Counterpoint and Harmony

Chapter Twenty-One

Come prima:like the first time; as before, typically referring to an earlier tempo.

Charlie

God, this man. His direct order to get naked makes me shiver with anticipation.

But I don’t move right away, wanting to look my fill first, his bronze skin stretched taut over his lean, lanky body, the silky happy trail leading to his erection, jutting out hard and long from the trimmed thicket of dark hair between his legs.

When my slow perusal travels back to his face, my breath hitches at the way Damian’s heated gaze travels over my body, searing everything in its wake. Scorching as the look on his face is, it doesn’t manage to incinerate my clothes.

Scooting back, I sit up, crossing my arms to grab my top by the hem and pull it over my head, my eyes immediately reconnecting with his as I toss it to the side.

He licks his lips, leaning over me, his hand traveling up my side to cup my breast, his thumb brushing across my nipple, making it grow harder at his attention.

My eyes fall closed, and I let my head drop back. “I love the way you touch me.”

He hums in response, his head dipping to feather light kisses over the swell of my breast along the edge of my lacy bra. He reaches behind me to unhook my bra, pushing the fabric out of the way so his tongue can swipe over my nipple.

His head lifts at my sound of appreciation, and he gives me a wicked grin before doing it again, then moving to the other side and sucking that nipple into his mouth, the edge of his teeth just grazing my hardened flesh. God, his mouth.

Releasing my nipple with a pop, he sits back again, a crooked smile on his lips as he stares at my chest. Then his eyes wander up to mine again. “I thought I told you to get naked.”

I huff out a laugh. “You weren’t making it easy on me.”

He shrugs, unrepentant. “I’ve always had trouble resisting you.”

“I remember things a little differently,” I retort as I pull my arms out of my bra straps and undo the button on my denim skirt.

Damian’s fingers hook in the waistband and start tugging as I lift my hips. “Just because I managed to resist for a while doesn’t mean it was easy.”

He leans forward, kissing me again, robbing me of whatever words I may have wanted to say next. My senses are all caught up in the feel of his skin on mine, the way he lays me back, propping himself next to me on one arm, his other hand traveling up my inner thighs, his fingers tracing delicate lines up and down, barely firm enough not to tickle.

On each upward stroke, he travels a tiny bit closer to where I want his fingers, and I lift my hips, hoping he’ll give in.

When his fingers finally slide into my wetness, I gasp, and he slides his tongue into my mouth, swallowing my sounds of pleasure. He’s as thorough as I remember, his fingers playing me, alternating soft and hard, taking me to the edge and sending me flying over.

He shifts, his hand sliding out of me, and he climbs between my thighs, nudging them apart with his knees. Reaching down to the floor, he produces a condom and rolls it on before lining himself up with my opening.

His dark eyes lock on mine, heavy with lust and … I can’t bring myself to guess what else I see there. He braces himself with his forearms on either side of my head, his eyes never leaving mine as he presses inside me.

My hips lift without my conscious direction, meeting his, welcoming him back.

He lets out a sound that’s half sigh, half moan as he holds himself inside me without moving.

I drag my hands down his back, digging my fingers into his ass, squeezing him with my inner muscles and clamping my thighs around his hips.

A grunt rumbles in his chest, and his ass flexes under my hands, pushing him just that much deeper inside me. And then he starts moving, as ever keeping his rhythm slow and steady to start with. Apart from quick, stolen kisses, his eyes never leave mine. I’m trapped by his gaze, locked in an eternal present where nothing exists outside of us, now, the feel of his skin sliding against mine, his cock dragging in and out of me.

Everything about our joining is both familiar and new. The same dedication to our pleasure, the same intensity, the same cadence to our lovemaking.

And yet …

No words pass between us. No whispered declarations of love. No long, deep kisses as we find connection and release in each other.

He’s different in some slight, yet significant way. Or maybe I am.

It’s not until he nears his own orgasm that he lets me look away. He buries his head against my shoulder, and I close my eyes, holding still as he pistons into me, each stroke hitting me in just the right spot to send my pleasure spiraling higher and tighter until it bursts in a shower of incandescent sparks flaring along my nervous system.

He’s right behind me, letting out a muffled groan as he trembles over me, pressing himself as deep inside me as he can get.

Wrapping my arms around him, I hold him close, tallying up the ways in which this changes things for us.

Talking on the phone and occasionally kissing is one thing. But I know what sex means for Damian.

Except he hasn’t told me he loves me. At all. Not since we were at Jonathan and Gabby’s wedding.

Which begs the question … what does this mean?

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