Her breath catches, a long, needy pant. Another bite, another moan that spurs me on.
As I push the strap of her dress down her arm, licking and nipping across her skin, her delicious scent goes to my head with every single stroke of my lips.
I kiss down her back to the top of her dress, tugging it down a little farther, flicking my tongue along her spine. The whole time she wriggles against me, arching, moaning.
But her dress is in the way.
I solve that problem by reaching for the hem, lifting it up, then pulling it over her head and tossing it onto the couch that she built earlier today.
I let out a long, appreciative moan as I regard the gorgeous beauty in front of me. She wears only a cotton bra and knickers. Her long, lovely, luxurious back is on display.
I run a finger along her spine, and she shivers as I touch her. “Your back is incredible,” I say.
“Then maybe put your mouth on it.”
“You love to give directions,” I say.
“I just know what I want. And I want you touching me. I want you kissing me.”
“Good thing I want my mouth all over you,” I say, as I savor every single second of tasting her. Moaning, she writhes against me and makes her desire known as I kiss down to the waistband of her knickers, tugging at them, dusting my lips over the top of the gorgeous globes of her ass until she spins around, all wild and needy. She gestures at me, pulling at my T-shirt. “Off. I want your clothes off.”
“What do you know? I want my clothes off too.” And then I cup her chin, bring her mouth next to mine, and whisper against her, “I fucking love that you know your mind.”
“I do. And I want you to have me and touch me and kiss me and eat me and fuck me.”
That sounds like a perfect dinner plan. I lift her up and let her koala me, wrapping her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck. As I walk to my bedroom, her body twined around mine, I tease her, saying, “But what about dinner?”
Her grin is dirty and flirty. “Eat me first.”
“You first. Dinner later. Sounds like the perfect recipe.”
Because there’s really no argument ever in the history of the universe against doing exactly what the woman wants in bed. Especially when it’s exactly what I want too.
In the bedroom, I lower her to the mattress and strip off her bra, then I delight in those fantastic breasts, savoring each one, lavishing attention on her nipples. I kiss my way down her body as she moves under me, panting and groaning. When I reach the top of the white scrap of fabric, she is the most beautiful sight ever as she twists on my bed, lifting her hips, asking for more. For more touch. For more connection.
“Off. Take them off.”
“Why, yes. That’s exactly what I planned to do.” I slide the last shred of clothing off her. Heat bursts inside me, like a fire roaring through my veins, as I gaze at the stunning sight in front of me.
January, totally aroused, completely naked, glisteningly wet.
And there’s one more treat too.
The answer to a question I had when I first noticed the art on her arms. Does she have any under her clothes, out of sight?
The answer is yes.
A delicate tulip graces her hip bone. Pink and green, and so very lovely. I breathe out hard, tracing the tiny flower with my index finger. “This is you,” I say reverently.
She nods, a knowing smile crossing her lips. “Yes. It’s me.”
“This is the girlie girl in your tomboy. It’s the sexy, sweet, feminine side under all that fix-it, do-it-yourself hotness.”
“Yes,” she says, that one syllable full of delight, like she loves that I figured this out, discovered this about her.
I bring my mouth to her hip, press a soft kiss to the tulip, and lick the delicate lines of it. A murmur falls from her lips, and when I raise my face, I ask another question. “When did you get it?”
“Almost two years ago.” It comes out as a whisper, at a low volume, underscoring the secret she’s sharing. “No one’s seen it.”
A fresh rush of lust whips through me, but it’s more than desire. It’s stronger, richer already. Since she’s sharing herself with me in a way she hasn’t with anyone else in ages. She is a gift, and she doesn’t give herself easily.
She deserves to be cherished, so I kiss the tulip once more, like I am cherishing it. I kiss it, murmuring against it, “Beautiful.”
Then I rise up, meet her gaze, and say, “Thank you for showing me your art.”
There’s so much more to that statement than the words themselves, and I think she knows it.
