Page 80 of If Not for My Baby
“I’m grand,” I say, in his accent.
His amused shock tastes better than my chicken Parmesan. “Is that how you’re keepin’?”
“Aye.” I flop onto his king bed and it sinks under my weight. “Blimey, you know all too well if I partake in your spirit, I may end up in the stocks like the other drunks.” My Irish accent is growing worse by the second.
I can hear Tom’s phone buzz in his pocket again but only his deep laugh rumbles closer. “Blimeyis for the Brits. And stocks were a little before my time.” He lies down on the bed beside me. His feet still touch the floor, while my heels dangle. “About four hundred years or so before.”
“I heard you were a forest god. Been around awhile.”
“You writeonesong about the woods outside your home and suddenly you’re immortal. Maybe I should write a song about people leavin’ me right alone.”
I sit up on my elbows. “I think it’s because you’re so wise…” I study the thin shadows on the ceiling. “You don’t feel of this world.”
At that Tom turns to face me. I do the same and our noses nearly brush. My heart skitters away.
This is good. Us finally reaching the climax of all this chemistry and friendship and connection. Likely, this is the reason I’ve been feeling like I’m spinning out the past few weeks. We were barreling toward this finish line. The novelty will wear off once we’ve gotten sex out of our system. Maybe after the second or third time. I’ll return back to earth, I’m sure of it.
“I thought the same thing the night I met you,” he says. “The way your voice soared…” He traces a fingertip along my cheekbone. “When you introduced yourself to me I thought you were an angel…Come down from on high to ruin my life.”
His words might sound like an insult, but I know from the way he says them and the heat in his eyes that they’re the furthest thing from one. I stare at his mouth and swallow the urges battling across me.
“Don’t worry,” I manage. “I’m not going to fall in love with you.”
“Clem”—he sighs like I’ve pained him—“that’s just what I’m afraid of.”
Before I can respond his lips have found mine.
Twenty-Seven
Tom doesn’t kiss like kissingis a mere prelude to sex. No, he kisses me like I am something sacred and he is the most devout of disciples. Like I’mruininghim. He licks at my tongue and sucks my bottom lip between his teeth with reckless, rough-edged need.
His beard is coarse against my chin when I push closer to him, wanting more. My hands find his hair, twining through his curls, and I realize tonight we can actually take our time. Time we didn’t have on the tour bus or in Central Park. The reality of what might come next yawns out around me and my body pulses with anticipation.
But the more I pull myself toward him—fisting my hands in his shirt, looping my legs around him, eager to make good on the promise of the evening—the slower he kisses me. His hand cradles my jaw ever so gently. His sighs ebb into my mouth like he’s languishing in them, even though I can feel how starved he is for more. He hasn’t even moved from his position on the bed.
He’s holding himself back.
When his mouth moves lazily to that spot right at the hollow of my neck, his thumb delivering perfect pressure on my hip bone, I gasp his name.
His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded when he releases me. “That’s dangerous.”
“Tom,” I say again.
His fingers tighten on my hip, and he pushes my dress up until it bunches around my waist, eyes still fixed on mine. There is no green left in them. His hand finds my ass and there’s an anguished noise in the back of his throat at the touch of bare skin. It lights me up like a spark plug.
His thumb skates under the elastic of my thong, drifting over my hip and back again. He kisses me once more and I groan. As if he’s lost all semblance of his earlier control, he pulls the panties from my body and lets the fabric fall to the floor.
“Oh,” I say dumbly.
His mouth quirks in amusement against mine. “That all right?”
I nod, taking a cue from him and sitting up to untie the small bow at the sweetheart neckline of my dress. Tom stands, unbuttoning his shirt, eyes never leaving my hands. The unmistakable intent with which he watches them work makes me squirm. Shirtless, he crosses the room to flick the lights off.
We’re drowned in a heady, liquid nightfall that both soothes and speeds my heart. Dusky hues of periwinkle emanate from the TV in the living space just beyond the bed. They paint Tom’s back in ice-blue panels of gorgeous muscle. When my eyes adjust, I can see hundreds of twinkling lightsfrom the cityscape beyond, visible through the open balcony doors. A soft summer wind breezes over my bare shoulders and I shiver pleasantly.
Tom sits down on the bed beside me. With a tenderness I keep forgetting to expect from a man of his size, he pulls the sleeve of my dress down my arm and leans into me, pressing his lips to the top of my breast. He bites the sensitive skin until I make a noise and then soothes the hurt with his tongue.
I fidget, attempting to ease the thrumming ache between my legs. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out—without my panties, I can feel how wet I already am. Some muted corner of my mind wonders about the fabric of my new, hideously expensive dress. But then Tom’s mouth moves lower. His teeth scrape right above my nipple. I forget all things.
