Weather Girl(57)

Gently, he tugs off my dress, his mouth exploring each new piece of me. A kiss to my navel. A bite at my hip. A stroke of his tongue in between my breasts and along the lace of my bra.

One-handed, I fumble with his belt, my hand skimming the curve of his stomach.

He recoils. “Sorry.”

“No—it’s okay,” I say, even as he’s reaching down to help me with the buckle. I want to tell him he has nothing to apologize for, but he seems ready to blaze past this, lips meeting mine again in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

If I’m the one ending his drought, I want this to be the best fucking sex he’s ever had.

My hand is too impatient as it dives inside his jeans, finding him warm and stiff and already straining against his boxer briefs. God. He reacts instantly—a sharp intake of breath. A low moan that sets my nerve endings on fire. Slowly, I rub back and forth as his head drops to my neck.

“That night on the retreat. In your room,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along my collarbone. His cock pulses in his boxers against my hand. I’m dying to see what he looks like without all this cotton and denim in the way. “I was hiding the most painful hard-on of my life. When you hugged me, I thought I was going to pass out.”

“You were such a gentleman, though.”

“On the outside, yes. You’d just fractured your elbow. No way in hell was I going to initiate anything. But my mind . . . was fucking filthy.”

His words send red-hot electricity up my spine. I can’t help wondering what fucking filthy things we were doing in his imagination.

“Russ,” I say, and I like the way his eyes flutter shut at that nickname. “You don’t have to close your eyes this time.”

That elicits a lovely groan from him, and I remove my hand so he can shuck off his jeans, sending up a quick thanks to the Patron Saint of Boxer Briefs.

I can’t marvel for long, though, because he’s turning his attention to my bra, tracing a finger along the black lacy straps. “This is beautiful. But unfortunately, it has to come off.” It only takes a twitch of his thumb for the front clasp to fall open. Then I’m just in matching black lace panties and my lightning bolt necklace, Russ in a gray T-shirt and boxers.

“Christ. So gorgeous.” His mouth parts as he looks me up and down. “Can you just . . . I want to look at you a second.”

It’s not until he says it that I realize my body is slightly scrunched, the way I usually am with new partners, not ready to completely expose myself yet. But the pure want in his voice is enough to ease that shyness. I relax my muscles, stretch out my legs, letting him drink me in.

It’s a raw, heady feeling, being able to see someone’s attraction like this. Russell wears it plainly—a dark intensity in his eyes, an exhale of breath, a curve of his lips that gives way to a wicked smile as he lowers himself over me. He’s careful to avoid my left arm, I realize, his hands cupping my breasts as he kisses my neck, his erection grazing my thighs. Crushing his mouth against the charm on my necklace, the cold metal pressing into my skin. It’s not that his touch is sloppy or inexperienced—it’s reverent, almost. Experimental, the way he rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, listening to the way my breath hitches, finding out what I like.

With Russell, I’m beginning to think I like just about everything.

When I reach for his shirt, though, he freezes up again.

“What is it?” I ask, my hand pausing at the hem. I will my breaths to slow down. I want to give him space to tell me how he feels—if that’s something he’s ready for.

He pulls back on his heels, gesturing to his stomach. Not quite meeting my gaze. “I, uh—I don’t want my stomach to be in the way, or for you to feel disgusted by it or anything. I know I’m fat.”

“You’re not—” I start, ready to defend him, but he holds up a hand.

“It’s not a bad word. It’s just an adjective. It’s just the way I am.” He waits a few beats before speaking again, as though deciding how much he wants to tell me. A soft sigh. A hard swallow. Maybe that is the sound of letting someone in. “I’ve been fat since I was a kid. And most of the time, it doesn’t bother me. It used to, and some people sure as hell think it should and go out of their way to make sure I’m aware of that. They’re sneaky about it sometimes, too—it’s all under the guise of caring about my health, even though I’m perfectly healthy.” He brings his eyes back up to mine. “So if it bothers you . . . I could maybe leave my shirt on? If that’s what you want?”

Hearing him say all of this breaks my heart. “No, no, no,” I say quickly, placing my hand on his arm. “Honestly? That’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

“Are you sure?”

I push to a sitting position so I can cup his face, have him look at me. “Yes. You’re hot, Russell, and I really fucking want you. All of you.” And then, to prove it, I take his hand and guide it between my legs, where I’m wet and needy for him.

He slips a finger inside my underwear and groans. Slowly, slowly, his finger brushes my center, achingly close to my clit. An excruciating circle, and then he finds it again. My hips buck, begging him to move faster.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. I love the way he lets himself enjoy this, bit by bit. “Fuck, Ari. You are . . . incredible.”