Page 107 of Lone Star

He reached her, finally. Cupped her throat; hovered over her, his breath fanning warm across her face, whiskey-scented. Poised and quivering on the edge of letting go of all that lovely, terrible restraint.

“Albie,” she murmured. “I’m ready. Aren’t you?”

He sucked in a little breath. “God, yes.” And then kissed her.

An immediately forceful kiss, lush, and deep, and wet. She opened her mouth to his, and she could tell then just how much he’d been holding back, trying to be respectful and careful of her. Not because he thought her weak, she knew, she his grip on her throat tightened and his other hand found the bare skin of her waist, but because he cared that much. Because he wanted to do this right.

The thought left her neck weak. She leaned into him, hands finding the front of his shirt – of his cut; cool leather and warm flannel. She was already dizzy, nearly overcome. She didn’t want to think anymore; to doubt, and restrain, and be cautious.

“Albie,” she murmured, between kisses.

“What, darling?” His hand skimmed upward, over the fretwork of her ribs, ghosting high on her side, shy of where she wanted it.

And how did she tell him? More suggestions and conversations? Or just…

“Touch me, please,” she whispered, and bit his lower lip.

That was the trigger, apparently. His hands found her breasts, and the kiss went dirty. Filthy.

She whimpered. She didn’t mean to, but the sound happened, and suddenly his arms were around her, and he was towing her to the bed, pulling her down into his lap. She straddled him gladly, and felt the hardness of his erection through his jeans. Had he been hard for her all this time? While she was in the shower? The thought had her pushing her hands through the glossy thickness of his hair, clutching at his skull as he trailed kisses down her throat, and out onto her shoulder. Down her collarbone and, finally, blessedly, to her breast.

“Oh,” she said on a gasp, because it was electric. The heat of his mouth, the silk of his tongue, the faint rasp of his teeth, just enough pressure to send pleasure rippling down her back. “Albie.” She clutched at his hair, desperate, suddenly – even more desperate than she had been. She ground down against him, the denim too rough against her most sensitive skin, but the burn of friction wasgood. Necessary. She needed…

He suckled hard, and his hand skimmed down the flare of her waist, over her hip, and finally, blessedly, through her curls to find her damp sex.

A teasing touch at first, feather-light. She rocked against him and felt herself growing wetter, slicker; his fingers – oh, they were clever fingers – parted her and finally stopped teasing. He pressed one into her, slow and steady, bit lightly at her nipple, and that was it, she was coming.

She made a shocked, choked sound as the pleasure washed up in a sudden, hot wave. She closed her eyes against it, hands going slack in his hair, clenching tight around his finger. She was weak with it, overwhelmed, trembling and unsteady.

His arm hooked around her waist, holding her tight, and he massaged her gently with that finger still inside, working her through the spasms.

“Christ.” Through the pounding of her pulse in her ears, she could pick out the reverence in his tone. “Christ, sweetheart, you went so easy.” He nuzzled into the sweat-tacky skin between her breasts, his breath hot, quick, but soothing.

She tried to say something, to thank him, but just murmured wordless nonsense instead.

He withdrew his finger, and then she did say, “No, wait, stay–”

“Shh, it’s alright.” He shifted her around and laid her out on the bed, hand cupped behind the back of her head as he lowered her to the bed with a sweetness that had her eyes burning.

She blinked up at him, still panting and pulsing with sensation, but getting her senses back. Sense enough to be both touched and terrified by the want and tenderness on his face as he looked down at her.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

“Take your clothes off. Please.” She managed to grab the hem of his shirt and tugged. “I wanna see you.”

Nothing about him was hesitant now. He stood and stripped with a few efficient movements; she heard a boot go thumping across the carpet when he kicked it off. He didn’t stand back and give her a twirl, didn’t let her look her fill, but it was enough. Enough to see that he was all compact muscle, and old scars, and thick thighs…and that he was hard, and flushed, and leaking for her already.

He climbed on the bed, prowled on all fours when she opened her legs in ready invitation. Planted a hand on the pillow beside her head and hovered above her, dark hair falling forward to tickle her forehead, his breath sharp, quick, warm against her lips.

Kiss me, she wanted to say. No more waiting. But the look in his eyes stopped her. He was just studying her, his pupils blown, his expression nothing short of awed.

He wasawedby her.

She shivered, cold now, as the sweat cooled, bereft of his body heat. She reached up and touched his face; traced her thumb along his lower lip. “I want you.”

He dropped down and kissed her; pressed them together, skin-to-skin, finally. He was warm, and his shoulders were hard and tensed when she gripped them.

She was sensitive, when he touched her again, messily wet; he slipped two fingers in easily, and she broke the kiss to take a deep breath.

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