Page 52 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“You?” I try again, wondering how one word could confuse her.

“I what?” Andrea says, her tone equally confused.

“You are what arouses me. Or would. When you tell me the time is appropriate.” After I give her flowers, sweets, and jewelry, if I listen to Sunderland. In reality? I have no idea.

“Like now?” Andrea’s voice sounds breathless, and there’s a lilt in the middle, like someone stole her ability to talk halfway through.

This time, I do knock over my chair. I rise too quickly, heart going from restful to racing in seconds. “Oh. Now. Right now?” I’m not prepared.

That bed is going to break in half.

Oh, God. Andrea is going to break in half.

“Well, no, not this second. But... when you want to. I’m... I would like to learn what you like. Maybe you know already, so you could teach me. And I could teach you what I like. Together. We could find out what we like together,” Andrea stammers, cheeks flooded to a pretty peach that makes me want to lean down and nibble on them.

Maybe I didn’t conceal that want very well, because Andrea is slowly sliding her hands up my chest, the best feeling in the world, and then she pulls my head to hers.

This time, the kissing doesn’t stop. It’s not fading into a satisfied, content sleepiness. It’s turning feverish. Andrea makes noises, these desperate, needy sounds, and it wipes out whatever thoughts I had about caution and restraint.

“Gordon. I don’t want to rush you into things,” she almost whimpers when my mouth finds her pulse and my tusk scrapes along her skin.

“Rush me. Please, Andrea, rush me,” I beg, lifting her.

“I want to touch you and be touched by you. I want to be close to you so badly I can’t stand it,” she confesses, fingers in my hair, holding onto me and keeping me in place at her throat, her delicate fingers as powerful as steel tow cables.

“It’s not a rush,” I admit, feeling heat sear across my skin when one of her hands skates under the collar of my faded gray t-shirt and down my back, her little nails lightly dancing down my spine.

“Thank God.” Andrea pushes away, and for a second, I’m confused yet again.

Then, she takes my hand and leads me towards her room.

Her bed.

I know I’m supposed to say something. This is special. Sacred. Momentous.

Instead, I make a noise in my throat, a wet click, and sit down hard on the edge of the mattress, ignoring the fact that the pillows fly off.

Andrea laughs. “My big, strong Gordon. Very big.” She stands between my legs, and when she stands and I sit, we’re still the right height to kiss.

“My small, perfect Andrea,” I whisper, hands on her hips. My hands can practically reach around her middle.

My hand could completely cover and hold her entire breast. Both of them, if they were closer together.

I’m so busy comparing our sizes that I miss the part where Andrea starts unbuttoning the gauzy pink shirt she wore today, something light and breezy, comfy for lounging around her apartment.

Now, it’s dropping to the floor, and there’s a pale peach bra staring at me.

Truly, staring, with two dark, pointed “eyes” straining the fabric.

Nipples, idiot. Not eyes.

Hard nipples mean cold. “Are you cold?” I blurt.

“Not with you to keep me warm,” Andrea pants.

So keep her warm, dummy.

I start massaging her back, and when my hands slide to the waistband of her loose black shorts, I run an experimental finger around the edge.