Page 39 of Make Me Love You

She nodded, releasing him, and pulled her T-shirt off over her head, revealing perky tits just the right size for his hands. No bra. The sight tempted his mouth, but if he started that he might never stop, and she wasn’t near naked enough for that yet. He pulled off her Converse sneakers and socks. Her toenails were unpainted, which didn’t surprise him in the least. She didn’t strike him as having a whole lot of extra time for things like pedicures. But it did something to him, seeing her unpainted toes. It felt intimate, somehow. Like he was seeing something not everyone had the privilege of seeing.

He flicked open the button on her jeans and pulled them down her legs. Plain black cotton underwear, sexy as hell on her, although he didn’t think that was her intention. He grinned, putting it all together. No bra, serviceable underwear. This truly wasn’t a premeditated booty call.

“Is something funny?” she asked, clearly annoyed that he had stopped.

“I’m imagining you at home, in bed, seething because you can’t stop thinking about me. You were in your pajamas, weren’t you? You had to change before you came here.”

“So what?”

“Hm.” He ran his thumb under the seam, tracing the line from her hip bone down the crease between her thigh and that lovely place his dick was aching to be. Her breath hitched in a very gratifying way. “Tell me something. Did you touch yourself? Just a little. Before you realized it wasn’t enough. You needed the real thing.”

“I—” Her cheeks flushed.

“You did!” He was absolutely delighted about that. Too delighted. The image of her touching herself, thinking of him, made his dick so hard it hurt. Enough of that. He had a job to do. “You won’t regret this. You can hate me tomorrow, regret that I exist in the same world as you, but you won’t regret the sex. I’ll give you what you need.”

With that, he hooked her underwear with one finger, tugged them off, and tossed them aside. And then...he looked.

Emma Andrews was naked in his bed.

Her hair fanned out across his pillow like a halo. He didn’t know where to start. With those perfect breasts, tipped by sweetest petal-pink nipples he had ever seen? Or lower, with the golden-brown triangle at the apex of her thighs? Yes, there. His mouth watered.

He put a knee on the bed next to her hip and kissed her, threading his fingers through her silky hair as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel his weight and how hard he was. How much he ached for her. He was still fully clothed, except for his shoes, and it drove him nearly insane to feel all that warm, soft skin separated from him by only a layer of fabric. That simple layer of fabric was the only thing keeping his restraint in check, the only thing that kept him from taking her now without foreplay.

For a moment he reconsidered. Was foreplay even necessary right now? They had had years of foreplay, even if they had barely understood it at the time. All those little touches, stolen glances, from the moment he had seen her in a bikini when she was fifteen and realized she wasn’t a child anymore. And then his dick had promptly hardened, reminding him that neither was he. Those eight long years of being invisible to her had only made him hungrier.

But he only had tonight. He was going to do this right, make it last, take her every way he could.

He shifted lower to kiss the alley between her breasts, then lower still to her belly. His lips curved in a smile, remembering how she had used him for a ladder. He had fantasized about this moment, and now that it was a reality, he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. He kissed her there, swirled the tip of his tongue in the indentation of her navel. She made a sound, a shocked giggle, and he had never felt so proud of himself. Emma wasn’t one to giggle. He lifted his head for a moment and grinned at her.

“Couldn’t resist,” he said.

Her fingers grazed his cheek in an oddly affectionate touch before her hand dropped to her side again. “I don’t want you to resist anything.”

Good. Because he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

She was panting heavily as he moved farther down, her stomach rising and falling with each labored breath. He paused there, at the most intimate part of her, savoring the moment.

His dick hurt.

His heart hurt.

And there was nowhere else he would rather be.

He made room for his shoulders between her thighs, pressing them wider so he had better access to the heart of her. He slid a finger gently down her center and then pressed deeper. She was wet with desire. For him. Only for him.

He lowered his head and tasted her deeply while continuing to tease her with his fingers. She gasped, her breaths coming in short, hard pants. Then suddenly—and far too soon—she gave a sharp cry, her back arched off the bed, and he felt her internal muscles clench in a rhythmic spasm around his fingers.

She fell back, breasts rising and falling rapidly, muscles limp. He raised his head and pierced her with a long stare.

“I wasn’t finished, Ms. Andrews,” he said sternly, and was pleased when she shivered.

“Sorry. It’s been...it’s been a while.”

“I wasn’t finished,” he repeated.

And lowered his head.

The first touch made her tremble and curl into herself just a little. Her orgasm had left her sensitive. He shifted, keeping his stroke gentle, giving her time to recover. He was a patient man, and for this, for her, he had all the time in the world. She was delicious, better than even his imagination had prepared him for.

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