Page 46 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She took another deep breath, wishing she was wearing some actual fabric to wipe her sweaty palms on. She spied her silk robe hanging on the back of the door. The plan had been to saunter out in just the lingerie, like she regularly seduced men on idle Tuesdays. But at the last minute, she chickened out and grabbed the robe and pulled it on.
She felt better. And worse. So much for the boss move.
Before she could chicken out of the whole thing, she grabbed the door handle, pulled it open, and walked into her bedroom.
He was staring at her bedroom wall, his back to her. She realized he was looking at the rows of framed photos that hung there. One was of her dad. There were also some of her performing in various roles, on stages all around the world. He was studying one black and white wide shot of her performing a soaring grand jeté in the wedding scene ofDon Quixote.
Heart hammering, she just stood there, wondering if she should make a sound or maybe clear her throat. Before she had to, he turned, first just his head, then his whole body.
His eyes roamed over her. Taking in her robe and her obvious lack of clothing underneath it. Her pulse skittered. Every single cell in her body felt like it had suddenly developed consciousness.
His throat worked in a thick swallow. “Can I see?” he said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Can I see all of you?”
She didn’t answer, because she couldn’t seem to make her own throat work. With trembling fingers, she undid the belt of her robe and let it slip from her shoulders to fall in a puddle at her feet.
He said nothing, just took her in with his eyes. Lingering on certain parts more than others. The feel of his gaze on her was so intense, he may as well have struck a match to her skin.
“Dios,” he breathed. “Ereshermosa.”
He crossed the distance between them and, gripping her ass in both hands, lifted her. She braced both hands on his shoulders, her legs coming up to wrap around his hips.
He carried to her bed and dropped her down onto it. Standing over her, he gently pushed her knees apart with his. Then he tilted her chin up with a crooked index finger and kissed her. His tongue glided across her lips, then slid into her mouth, and it was caressing and gentle, and then it was possessive and bold, and so deep in her mouth it felt like a foretaste of what was to come.
She didn’t even notice he’d unclasped her bra until she felt him gliding the straps over her shoulders. Then it was off completely, landing in her lap.
He broke off the kiss to look down at her small breasts, his hands going to them as if they couldn’t stop themselves. He cupped each one, taking advantage of her open-mouthed gasp to kiss her again.
Her hands went to tug at the hem of his t-shirt, communicating wordlessly that she wanted it off too.
He obliged, grabbing the back collar of his singlet and pulling it down over his head.
When he straightened, she got a little jolt, like she did every time she saw him shirtless. He had a beautiful body. Thick muscles covered his arms and shoulders, but his abdomen was long and lean, like a dancer’s. It was his tattoos, however, that always gave her a slight shock. One in particular: the black hand on his left pec, right over his heart. She didn’t mind any of his other tatts, though some of them were beautiful. Works of art. But that one she hated. Every time she saw it, she had an urge to cover it with her own hand, make it go away.
He dropped his t-shirt on the floor to join her bra. Then he came back to his spot between her legs and gripped her chin between thumb and finger. He lifted her head, making her look him in the eye. “Are you okay?”
She wanted to say yes, but her heart was making a filthy liar out of her. He must have been able to feel its beat pulsing in every vein under her skin.
He pressed his thumb against her lips. “You can tell me to stop. Anytime. I swear I will.”
She looked up at him and said softly, but with certainty, “Daniel. I don’t want you to stop.”
She shifted higher on the bed. He bent over her and curled his fingers around the waistband of her panties. When she lifted her hips, he striped it off her with the practiced ease that made her think he’d done that move many times before.
She forced that thought away.
Some ingrained modesty made her try to close her legs, try to conceal herself from him, but he didn’t let her. He gripped her knees, one in each palm, and then just looked at her. His gaze was so potent it was like he was touching her everywhere, all at once.
Her returning gaze was much less confident. His eyes went back to hers and she knew he’d heard the questions she hadn’t asked. “Eres perfecto.”
He leaned over her, his hands around her waist until she was lying flat against the bed. Then he began laying down a trail of kisses from her neck, over her breasts, down her ribs. Then lower…and lower… He pressed his tongue against her stomach.
“Quiero probarte,” he said huskily.
She pushed herself up on her elbows. He was looking up at her, along the length of her body. There was a question in his eyes. She didn’t need a translation to know what he was asking her. To know the destination of his relentless downward journey.
Her breath got stuck somewhere in her throat. She nodded, and it was all the permission he needed.
She fell back on the bed and covered her face with both hands like she could somehow contain the feeling of his mouth on her.
