Page 82 of The Romantic Agenda
Joy pulls back to look at him. His lips are slightly parted, gaze unfocused and yet still so sharp. She’s searching him now, trying to find in his eyes the look she knows all too well, that saysToo much.Not fair. You can’t do this to me.The one that tells her the party’s over, to detangle herself before he tells that lie about blue balls. But it’s not there either.
He brings his face close again, but not to kiss. His breath fans out over her cheek as he exhales and places a kiss at the corner of her mouth—the start of the trail. Down, down, down the kisses go, to her chin, along her jaw, in front of her ear, and down her neck, each one more welcome than the last. His hands still haven’t left her hips.
Joy smiles, biting her lip and ducking her head to hide it because she doesn’t want him to see how giddy he makes her feel,like champagne bubbles under her nose and the first perfect taste of decadent chocolate cake. It’s not only his careful, delicate kisses, soft, perfectly sized lips, and scratchy stubble scraping against her smooth skin. It’s thinking about all of him, all at once, holding him in her mind and in her arms.
Hesitantly, she touches his hair, stroking his loose curls and then diving in, fingers lightly massaging his scalp. He makes a noise when she does this—and she stops, assuming she’s gone too far.
Joy tries to peel herself away, quick like a Band-Aid, and he says, “Wait. No,” eyes intense and on hers. “It’s okay.”
Fox takes her hands, kissing her palms and each of her fingers, and when he finishes, he presses them to his chest. Thoughts unmuddied, she realizes it’s firmer than she’d thought it’d be—the give of pliable skin and hard muscle underneath. And he’s still so warm, truly like a furnace. He runs his hands from her fingertips to her wrists, touch so light it feels positively silky, like freshly shaved legs on clean bedsheets. He keeps his gaze down. That line between his brows appears.
Joy wants to ask him what he’s thinking but something tells her it’s a sixty-five percent moment. If he wants to tell her, it’ll be when he’s ready and she’ll wait because he’s wonderful. There are worse people in the world to kiss and Fox Brilliant-Grump-Extraordinaire Monahan is nowhere near that list.
“Do you want to go up?”
Fox looks at her face. “Up?”
“Stairs,” Joy says. “To my room.”
Twenty-Two
Whenever Joy talked about sex with Grace, her sister focused on emotions and connections and selfish partners not worth her time. With Malcolm, he talked about the act itself, focusing on the physical sensations and the learning curve for how to be a good partner.
Both of those conversations merged in Joy’s mind.
Fox holds her by the neck, bringing her face to his. Joy curves her entire body around him—she’s on his lap, hands in his hair, legs wrapped around his hips. He’s touching her back now, warm hand sliding under her shirt and splaying flat against her skin. But that’s all. He doesn’t move anywhere else. He doesn’t try anything else. He just kisses her and kisses her and kisses her while her hands are all over him. And oh god, he gets it. Fox understands and it’s not unfair or selfish. It justisand he understands exactly what she needs. When she can firmly feel his erection, she stops, pulling back and trying to catch her breath.
“Is something wrong?” He’s equally out of breath and blinking in confusion as she slides off his lap.
“No.” She kisses him once, twice, and then moves to the head of the bed, holding out her arms for him. “Let’s take a break.”
Fox sits next to her, and she curls around him again, unable to stay away. He’s so warm and strong, and breathing him in makes her feel so calm.
“Was it too much?” he asks carefully.
“No.” She laughs into the crook of his neck. “Not even close.”
Joy is sure he knows his limits. If he needs a break, she’s confident he’ll tell her. But part of this includes being attentive to his needs too. She doesn’twanthim to have to get to that point. She could keep going on forever like that, especially with him, but he can’t. Not without wanting more.
Fox touches her elbow, fingers dancing up her arm to her shoulder and then to her face, urging her from her hiding spot. “Joy,” he whispers. It doesn’t take much more to coax her back onto his lap and to kiss him again.
This time, Joy’s hands find their way under his shirt. She murmurs, “Lift your arms, please,” against his lips. He does, helping her take off his shirt. She presses her forehead against his as she looks down. His nose brushes hers, and he lightly nudges her head up to kiss her again.
Fox has a tattoo on the side of his rib cage—two words written in cursive. Joy traces them with her fingertips before making her way across and down the rest of his chest. Washboard. She gets it now.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, smiling like he can’t wait to know the joke too. His lips are swollen, a brighter pink than usual, and just as wonderful.
But Joy shakes her head. She moves her hands back up his chest and over his shoulders, down the curve of his biceps and forearms to his hands on her hips.
“I didn’t really notice you on the boat or even look at you in the hot tub. It’s just not something I care about looking at. Does that bother you at all? That the way you look doesn’t—”
“No.”
“But I do like touching you.”
“I can tell.”
Her fingers skip along his collarbone like she’s delicately plucking guitar strings. “Does that bother you?”
