Page 64 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Of what?” And the curiosity laced with hope in his voice tells me he’s asking me to verbalize my decision about wanting to be with him. My understanding there’s only so much he can give me.
“I’m . . .” I clear my throat as my hands fidget where they rest on the bare skin of his waist. I avert my eyes before I speak so he can’t see my embarrassment. “I’m not any good at this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This.” My cheeks burn with mortification and I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut. I shrug, embarrassment stealing the words from my lips as I open and then close them again. “Sex.” When I finally say the word, it’s barely audible, my insecurities overruling the heat of his touch on my skin and the ache it makes me feel.
His answering chuckle is low and rich and all I hear is Ethan’s mocking tone in the sound. Needing space, I try to shrug out of Zander’s hold on my cheeks, to be alone, to lick my shameful wounds in private, but his hold remains steadfast. “Getty, look at me.”
He waits until I comply. I can tell my jaw is set with the hurt I don’t want to convey, but when my eyes find his, the mocking look I expect isn’t there. In fact what I see is exactly the opposite: disbelief, understanding, compassion. A million questions and answers pass between us in a single moment of connection.
And then something shifts. Maybe it’s the rub of his thumb over my parted lips. Or the way that soft smile lifts up one corner of his mouth and carries through to his eyes. I can’t place it, but it’s as if someone has vacuumed all the air from the room and replaced it with electricity. My skin burns with desire where he touches me, and a strange mix of anxious arousal surges through me.
“I don’t believe you for a second. If the sex wasn’t good, I assure you it wasn’t you. There’s no way you can kiss the way you kiss and not be any good at it. That’s not possible,” he murmurs as he leans forward and brushes his lips against mine again. “I have a feeling it was your partner who wasn’t any good.”
“Mmm,” I murmur against his mouth, willing myself to believe him.
When he leans back, the lift of his eyebrows is a subtle warning not to doubt him. His eyes are begging me to trust him. I do, but I’m scared. I want him but don’t even know where to start.
“Let me show you differently,” he says before he takes my hand in his and leads me down the hallway toward his bedroom.
There is no turning back now. My heart beats faster with each step and my body becomes more attuned to every single thing about him. The bunch of the muscles in his back as he walks. The intricate splash of ink on his shoulder. His hair mussed. His unmistakable but subtle scent of cologne. The confidence in his stride.
When we enter his bedroom, I’m glad he’s holding my hands so they can’t tremble out of control. He stops in front of the bed and pulls me to him so we’re face-to-face, eyes locked on each other’s, our matching shaky breaths the only sound in the room around us, and the glow of the moon the only light in it.
With his eyes trained on mine and the rush of blood pounding in my ears, I feel his fingers fumble with the tie on my robe. The smooth silk rubs against my bare skin. Then the cool air of the room hits me as the sash falls to the ground and the fabric parts. We stare at each other for a beat before the heat of his hands slides over my waist.
I hold my breath in reaction to the unknown that’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He doesn’t break our visual connection as he slowly runs the palms of his hands up my rib cage and then back down to the curve of my hips. His touch crosses to the middle of my back and then moves up the length of my spine before his fingers knead into my shoulders. Then they retrace their path all over again.
He continues this slow, tantalizing seduction, but it’s the look in his eyes that holds me rapt. He watches my reactions to every single brush of his hands over my skin. Every inhalation. Every flutter of my eyelashes. Every time my eyes widen from the temptation he offers.
My body aches in delicious ways that are brand-new to me. Each nerve at the delta of my thighs and along my nipples is left frenzied and standing at attention in the wake of his touch.
Foreplay was a waste of energy before. Seduction nonexistent in my marriage. My pleasure, my needs, my wants, all of that forgotten in the face of Ethan’s gre
ed and disregard for me.
But he’s not Zander.
Zander is hypnotizing me slowly. Pulling me under his spell by giving me time to settle my nerves. Showing me tenderness with his patience. And we haven’t done anything more than kiss.
“Getty . . .” His voice sounds strained, rough with desire, as his hands run up my rib cage, this time rubbing his thumbs over the tips of my nipples. And I can’t respond. Not with his touch owning my mind and body. My back arches, lips part in a gasp, and my head falls back as he takes a moment to appreciate my breasts. But this time, he pushes my robe off my shoulders so that it slides down my arms and pools at our feet.
He threads his fingers through my wet hair at the base of my neck and fists it while his other hand splays wide against my lower back. And there’s something to be said about the fact that his eyes haven’t left mine yet. They haven’t wandered over my bared body like I’d expect from a man. It’s like he knows I’m scared, partly self-conscious, and a whole lotta flustered, and is making sure I know he wants me for so much more than just what my body can give him.
The notion is heady as he steps against me.
The cool air of the room, the undeniable heat of his body, and the anticipation of what’s to come all overshadow the nerves humming through me as I stand there naked and vulnerable.
He pulls gently on my hair to angle my head to the side and exposes the curve of my neck. His lips meet the top of my shoulder and he laces a row of openmouthed kisses up to that sensitive spot just below my ear.
“Let me worship you, Getty.” The deep timbre of his voice fills my ears, warms my soul, and erases any remaining doubt I have.
But there isn’t much.
“Let me show you how sex is supposed to be. Supposed to make you feel. Let. Me. Worship. You.”
I’m not sure who moves first, but within a beat our mouths meet in a kiss to rival all kisses. It starts out slow and sweet—parted lips, tentative tongues, contented moans—as his body moves into mine. My breasts press against the firmness of his chest and I lose myself to him. In him. The flex of his muscles beneath my hand. How he moves my head to control the angle of our kiss. The scrape of his five-o’clock shadow over my chin. The vibration of his chest as he hums in strained appreciation. The taste of him on my tongue. The strength of his body when he pulls me tighter into him. The unmistakable thickness of his erection, hard and straining against the inseam of his jeans.
