Preston's Honor(68)

As the rain picked up, I lowered my head, looking at Preston who was staring at me, his hair and his clothes plastered to his body just like mine. I saw the outline of his muscles and the way all the intense labor had hardened him even more than he’d been before. He looked carved from stone standing there—a beautiful god—and he was looking at me with so much intensity, I almost forgot about the miracle of the rain. I only saw him and felt the first flush of desire that I’d felt in so long. I let out a small gasp, pushing my hair out of my face.

In a rush of movement, he was in front of me, and I let out another gust of sound that was swallowed up by the rain. I felt the heat of him. I heard him saying my name as his hands wove through my saturated hair and he tipped my head back, his mouth claiming mine with a force so hard I cried out at the impact.

Oh, God.

I gripped him tightly to me as we kissed, a feeling of desperate need overcoming me. Oh God, oh yes, I wanted, I needed the physical touch so badly. So very, very badly. If he hadn’t been holding on to me, I would have fallen over.

I pulled at his shirt and he let go of me as he slipped it over his head. I cried out, feeling suddenly so cold and bereft, tears sprung to my eyes. I couldn’t . . . oh please, don’t pull away. To have him and then to be cast away . . . I couldn’t, I couldn’t. But mere seconds later, he had his arms around me again and he was murmuring my name, his breath hot on my neck, his hands going up the back of my shirt so he could glide his hands over my bare skin.

Yes, yes, yes.

The rain continued to fall, picking up in tempo, drumming on the ground all around us, a sudden torrent, as lightning sliced across the sky and a few seconds later, thunder rumbled. Preston scooped me up in his arms and started walking hurriedly toward the house, his lips never leaving mine.

He shouldered his way through the back door, and suddenly we were back under the bright lights of the kitchen. I slid down his body as he let go of my legs and my feet hit the floor. Our raspy breath echoed through the room, the soft masculine groans coming from Preston making me feel weak.

Preston walked me backward toward the foyer and I thought distantly that our second sexual encounter wasn’t going to be on the hard surface of a tabletop, but in a bed, thank goodness.

When we got to the foyer, though, he backed me up against the wall and in one fluid move, pulled my shirt over my head. I cried out softly, wanting to cross my arms over my breasts even though I was wearing a bra. It was a nursing bra and wasn’t very attractive and my own insecurity caused the foggy passion to fade.

Preston had only seen my naked body once, but it had been in much the same way as he was seeing it now—in a darkened room as our clothes were being madly torn off. I almost asked him to stop, to slow down so I could get my bearings, but I was so afraid he’d stop touching me altogether, and I was so very desperate to be touched. Part of me didn’t care how or why, just that he was.

“Lia, Lia, oh God, Lia,” he was murmuring as he fumbled with the button on my pants, pushing them down and then pulling at his own jeans and letting them drop to the floor.

For a moment I was afraid he’d see the stretch marks on my belly and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. He’d put them there, but what if he found them unattractive? What if he spotted them and backed away?

I used my hands to cup his face and brought his lips back to mine, making sure he didn’t look down as he lifted me with one arm and used his other hand to guide his hard length into me, impaling me against the wall in one swift motion and causing me to break away from his mouth on a loud, gasping cry.

He stilled. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” I panted. “I’m fine. Please.”

Please love me.

Please help me.

Please don’t stop touching me.

I need you.

I need you.

“Please,” I repeated.

He began moving, moaning with so much desperation I wasn’t sure if he was feeling pleasure or pain.

I felt slightly dry and was surprised that even after having a baby, I still felt stretched and full as he moved inside me. I clutched at his shoulders, watching the reflection of his bared backside in the glass of the front door as his muscles clenched and relaxed as he thrust and withdrew. The sight caused a surge of wet heat and a throb of pleasure in my core and I moaned, adjusting myself so Preston’s pelvis was rubbing mine with his movements.

I reached for the wild tumble of pleasure I knew existed from the first time we’d had sex, but I couldn’t quite get there, not in that position. But just being close—having him inside me—was so wonderful I didn’t really care.

After only a minute or so, he let out a deep groan and pressed me into the wall, stilling and circling his hips as he panted against my neck. He throbbed inside me and I rested against him, my arms around his neck, feeling slightly disappointed, but also enjoying the closeness, the calm after the storm.

His lips moved against my throat, as soft as butterfly wings, and his breath tickled my skin. I closed my eyes, a small smile on my lips as I wove my fingers through his hair. Outside the glass of the front door, I could see that the rain was letting up, now just a gentle pitter-patter against the roof. Had it been enough?

Preston let go of my legs and slipped out of me, and I made a small gasping sound of surprise. I hated that part—the sudden emptiness. But I didn’t let go of Preston. I didn’t want this to end. He didn’t pull away from me either, though, and he seemed to be enjoying the aftermath, too.