Anything for Her(33)

“Pretty,” he said thickly.

Her bedroom?

“Let me pull back the quilt.”

She flushed, but was grateful. Sex could be...messy.

“Hearts and Gizzards.”

Nolan stopped, still gripping the covers. “What?”

Her cheeks were probably blazing now. “I... That’s what the pattern is called. This is...” Why would he care? Oh, she was making an idiot of herself, she knew she was. “It’s the first quilt I made that truly satisfied me.”

She saw him look more closely.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, voice gruff. “Everything you make is beautiful.”

“It was the quality of the piecing and quilting that...” Allie stopped. “Why am I talking about a quilt?”

He laughed and tugged her up against him. “Because you’re nervous?” He seemed to think about that. “I guess I am, too. But why are you?”

“It’s been a long time. And I wasn’t very good at sex. Or something...” She trailed off, her humiliation growing.

“Not good at it?” He cocked his head. “You mean you didn’t enjoy it?”

“It was...okay.” She’d only gotten this far with a couple of boyfriends over the years, one in college, and one a year or two after she’d graduated.

She suspected she’d gone to bed with them because of social pressure. A relationship reached a certain point, that’s what you did. Only, she’d been dating as much to be normal as because she actually felt anything special for either guy. She had never really and truly wanted a man before, not with this heat that curled inside her, weak knees, shaky certainty.

His mouth had a wry quirk. “I can’t claim to be the world’s greatest lover. I’ve had a few girlfriends over the years, but that’s all—a few. I’d like to promise you a sublime experience, but, uh, if it’s all in technique, I don’t know if I can.”

Now she’d killed the mood. And she quite desperately didn’t want him to retreat.

“I’m sort of guessing satisfaction isn’t about technique,” she said, still probably blushing. With her skin tone, she did that well. “Maybe it’s about how you feel about someone.”

“Well, it could be a combination.” He swallowed. “If it’s anything about what I feel, maybe I can promise sublime.”

Allie released a huge breath. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

He said something under his breath, fervent, almost harsh, and then was kissing her again, and it didn’t matter that they’d stopped to talk about quilt patterns or previous sexual experience. Nothing mattered but touching him and being touched by him, the hard beat of his heart beneath her hand and the dizzying speed of her own pulse.

He lifted his mouth from hers long enough to peel her T-shirt over her head and make a sound of pleasure. Her hands slid under the hem of his T, finding warm, hard flesh and smooth skin until they encountered soft chest hair. Impatient, she was the one to pull back so she could divest him of his shirt. He took the opportunity to undo her bra hook and slide the straps from her shoulders.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, although her self-consciousness returned. She had rather small breasts. In fact, none of her curves were all that inspiring. Subtle was the best that could be said about them.

Her shoulders hunched. “I’m not very...”

“You’re gorgeous.” His hands enclosed her breasts, and ever so gently rotated, sensitizing her nipples.

Allie closed her eyes, lost in the extraordinary sensation. There he was again, being so careful, and yet his tough calluses scraped her skin and sent a rush of heat arrowing between her legs. A sound escaped her, a moan or even a whimper.

Nolan said something rough and shaken, then lifted her and laid her back on the bed. She heard her sandals hit the floor. His knee came down between hers, and he bent to place his mouth where his hands had been. He kissed and licked and nuzzled before suckling her. Allie was groaning nonstop now, arching to make herself more accessible to him.

He eventually tore himself away from her breasts long enough to strip Allie of her jeans and panties. As he surveyed her, dark color streaked his cheekbones. She was stunned to see that he’d meant it when he said she was beautiful. The way he looked at her almost made her believe she was.

Suddenly she wanted to see him, too. As she reached for the button of his jeans, Allie had a flash of memory: being an almost-teenager and feeling enormously curious about the bulges—some more substantial than others—outlined so conspicuously by the leotards that the male dancers wore. Her father was modest enough that she’d never even caught a glimpse of him without clothes on. She’d seen her brother naked, but only when they were young. She couldn’t quite picture how what he had down there could have metamorphosed into anything that...large.