Page 55 of So Close

“Setareh,” you breathe, pressing your lips to the corner of my mouth, “our love can survive anything, even death. Tell me you know that.”

I kiss you.

You hold my jaw in both hands, your thumbs pressing gently to keep my mouth open. Your tongue thrusts in smooth, quick dips. I tug at the blanket that is now twisted around my hips, too hot to wear. I push onto my knees and scramble into your lap, my legs straddling yours without breaking the kiss. I’m not good or bad in your arms, right or wrong. It’s such a reprieve not to fight that battle, if only for a few hours.

I take over as your hands drop to my hips and savor you with lush licks. You groan, your hands flexing into my flesh. I pull at the hem of your shirt, sliding my hands beneath to touch you.

You gasp, arching into my palms. “Yes … Touch me everywhere.”

My fingertips trace the rigid lacing of your abs, then slide around to the small of your back. Your hands caress my thighs, your thumbs dipping into the grooves on either side of my sex.

“Take this off,” I order, tugging at your T-shirt.

Reaching over your shoulder, you grab the back of the collar and yank it over your head. You toss the T-shirt aside and seize me again.

“Kane …” I run my hands across your broad shoulders. “You’re so beautiful.”

You laugh, the sound deep and delighted. You’re no longer waging an inner battle either. That’s the magic of love, isn’t it? The permission to be ourselves knowing the other is blind to our faults.

I touch you everywhere, learning your extraordinary body’s sensual, powerful lines. My mouth follows my hands, my lips pressing to your throat before moving downward.

“Your turn,” you say hoarsely, bunching the hem of my dress around my waist.

But I can’t stop touching you. Your arms tangle with mine as you try to undress me. To make it easier, I reach for the ceiling, then press against you as you fling the dress in the general direction of your T-shirt. A shuddering sigh leaves me. Your skin is so warm against my breasts, the hair on your chest soft and springy. Your splayed hands rub up and down my back, arching me gently so that we’re tightly together.

“Hold on,” you warn.

The room spins as you cradle and lower me to lie beneath you. I’m still wearing the emeralds, and they sway, reminding me they’re there. You bought them for someone else, but now they’re mine.You’re mine. You crouch between my legs. The sculpted lines of your gorgeous face and your full, sexy mouth are taut with lust. Hot male awareness smolders in your eyes and reminds me how well you can hide that predatory gleam and easily mask your animal nature when you want to.

You curl your hands beneath the waistband of my underwear, and I lift my hips, then stretch my legs toward the ceiling.

“I fantasize about these long legs.” You press your lips to my knee, then you tongue the hollow behind it, making me shiver. “And this freckle, right here.”

“I fantasize about every part of you.”

You pull my panties up the length of my legs, then toss them over the back of the couch with the rest of our clothes.

“My heart is beating so fast,” you tell me, your eyes gleaming with reflected flames from the fireplace.

“Mine, too.”

You caress me from the sides of my breasts to the outer curve of my hips. I shiver and giggle, tickled by that fleeting touch.

A smile curves your mouth. Such a simple expression of delight, but the sight of it breaks my heart.

“You’re safe with me, too,” you murmur, lowering your head to my breast.

Fresh tears flood my eyes.

You scorch my tender nipple with the wet heat of your mouth. My back bows, a harsh gasp escaping me at the lash of your tongue. The tip, already peaked from the press of your body against mine, tightens further. Your low growl vibrates against and through me, stimulating the aching cleft between my legs. As your tongue flickers like flame, I feel its phantom echo in my sex. My fingers tangle in the hot silk of your hair.

You shift, moving your attention to my other breast, engulfing the taut point with the hungry suction of your lips and the rapid stroking of your tongue. When your hand delves between my legs, the calloused pads of your fingertips find me slick and swollen. I moan your name, shameless.

Two long, strong fingers enter me as your mouth tugs rhythmically on my nipple. You begin to stroke deep, leisurely and skillfully. Your thumb rubs over my clitoris with every plunge and retreat. You deftly target a hypersensitive spot inside me, rubbing back and forth over that tender place with merciless finesse.

I pant with delirious pleasure. From the first, I knew your sexual experience was considerable and triumphant. It’s evident in everything about you. The predacious sinuousness of your movements. The explicit promises your eyes make. The assured arrogance of your seductions. You know what your body can do to women, and it shows.

It’s the reverence I’m unprepared for, the tender veneration that takes us beyond sex into a splendidly physical act of love. Or is it gratitude? What a gift it is to be perfect in someone else’s view.

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