Death and Relaxation (Ordinary Magic #1)(72)

He was wearing too many layers. My fingers tugged at his T-shirt, slipped up beneath the soft cotton, and finally stroked the heat of his smooth skin along the edge of his low-slung jeans.

Ryder Bailey, I’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for you. I don’t care what the vampire says.

I pulled away from the kiss so I could unbutton my shirt. Ryder’s hands fell over mine, stilling my clumsy fingers over the line of buttons. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on the tender skin beneath my ear.

“I have too many clothes on,” I whispered.

“What should we do about that?” he growled against my ear, his breath soft and hot.

I shifted, twisted out of his hold, then scooted back on the bed.

“We should get naked.”

He smiled and shucked out of his flannel shirt and T-shirt in one smooth over-the-head move. I tried to peel my gaze away from his bare chest.

Okay, no, I didn’t.

I’d seen him naked. Recently, as a matter of fact. But here, in the butter-soft light of the candles, the hard muscles of his wide shoulders, thick chest with a dusting of dark hair, and flat stomach were even more defined.

He dropped his shirts to the floor. And crawled across the bed after me, then over the top of me, one hand braced on both sides of my shoulders.

We were so close, I could see the pulse of his heartbeat at his throat, but we weren’t touching.

He was watching me, waiting.

I reached up, stroking his left shoulder where the tattoo of Leonardo da Vinci’s hand capped it. I traced the bold lines of the words there and bit at my bottom lip. The art was stark in sepia brown against his tanned skin. Simple and beautiful on its own—on him, incredibly sexy.

I pressed my other hand—only my fingertips—on his other shoulder, and then dragged my fingers down the warmth of his hard chest, seeking the tight muscles of his stomach. His breathing hitched, and he held it as I explored. When he took his next breath, it shook a little.

I loved that I could make him feel that way. Loved that just a simple touch from me could make him tremble.

“Delaney,” he said. I didn’t know if it was question or request. I was focused on his other tattoo, the artist’s compass and stars that spilled over the edge of his hipbone.

I wanted to put my mouth on it. I shivered a little, but not from the cool of the house. I felt like I was fevered, burning.

I watched Ryder’s eyes as I slid my fingers into the waistband of his jeans.

He exhaled, almost a moan, and his eyes fluttered closed as his throat worked to swallow.

I unbuttoned his jeans and then pulled the zipper.

His eyes snapped back open as my fingers brushed softly over his boxers.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked him with a low burr in my voice.

He was firm and hard beneath my hand. I knew what his body wanted, but that wasn’t what I was asking him.

“Are you?”

The moment stretched. Neither of us moved. The only motion in the room was the shifting of candlelight swaying in the shadows. I thought I saw something change in his gaze. Something that looked like worry or guilt. His mouth half opened, as if he were trying to decide if he should tell me something.

Then he smiled and that fleeting look was gone. His smile was soft, and honest, and said more than words ever could.

Don’t make me regret this, Ryder Bailey. Please don’t break my heart.

I draped my arms over his shoulders, holding the back of his neck with one hand, the other hand dragging up into his hair.

He closed the very short distance between us, his hands skating under my shirt and across my ribs and then around to my back and hip as he pulled me against him.

Then he eased me down and kissed me again, lips catching, teeth nibbling at the corner of my mouth, tongue dragging and licking. I bit his bottom lip gently but firmly to get his attention, and he grunted. “Yes?” he said against my mouth.

“Strip.”

I felt his smile against my lips. He rose up on his knees above me.

“Is this a strip search, officer?” Mischief sparkled in his eyes. “Are you going to read me my rights?”

I laughed and covered my mouth with my hand, watching him with wide eyes. “Oh my God. You role-play?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He shrugged, a fluid roll of his shoulders, then shifted to the side so he could pull off his jeans and boxers, which he dropped down to the floor. “Maybe when there’s a sexy lady cop in my bed.”

I made quick work of my own clothes while he was occupied. I pushed under the covers, a chill washing over my skin, and held the blanket open for him.

“My bed.”

He shouldered in under the covers, settling on his side, head propped on one hand, the other dragging over the curve of my breast, his thumb lingering sweetly over my nipple, then drifting down across my belly.

“Whichever bed,” he murmured. “Only one sexy cop.”

“Me?” I asked with all the feigned innocence I could muster with him looking at me like that, touching me like that.

He stilled. “Only you.” The worry flickered in his eyes again, or maybe it was just the fluttering light of candles playing tricks.

His smile turned rakish. “Mother, may I?” His hand slipped down and down, curved at my hip, fingers gripping and releasing.

I groaned. “Maybe you should go back to the sexy cop game.”