Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(93)
Exaltation shone from him like the sun. “I’ve loved you since the start,” he whispered. “I’ve almost told you a thousand times.”
“And a thousand times, you did without speaking. So know that I’m not afraid, and I am exactly where I want to be. Is it too much to hope that you’ll be my very last first?”
“No, Annie.” His voice was soft and rough. “No, it’s not.”
He brought his lips to mine, the absolute rightness of him overwhelming me, drawing me into him.
He collected me in his arms, holding my body against his own as he kissed me deep, deeper still. And with every shared breath, every sweep of his tongue against mine, with every beat of my heart against his, the bond that twisted through us wound tighter until one was indistinguishable from the other.
I broke away, my heart drumming madly astride his as our eyes closed and foreheads bowed until they touched. And after a moment of reverie, I took an unwavering step back and turned, collecting my hair with trembling hands to expose my zipper.
His fingers—they trembled too, a sweet tremor of awe and affection—touched the fastener and pulled, the sound sending a jolt of heat through me, the feel of his breath between my shoulder blades and his lips against my skin settling that heat deep and low in my belly. His hands brushed my shoulders, pushing the dress over the curves and down to the ground in a whisper.
I stepped out of my heels and dress at once, left in nothing but a small swath of black lace around my hips. A single moment of fear tripped my heart with a lurch. But I drew myself tall, stretching the length of my spine until it was straight and sure, felt the fear disappear as faith took its place. And then I turned to face him.
What I found when I looked upon him was a bottomless expression of ardent worship, the expression of a man who saw the sun breaking the horizon after a lifetime of blindness. His hand seemed to move of its own accord to capture the ends of my hair in his fingers, rolling the strands between his fingertips, as if they were fine silk.
Those same fingertips moved to the welted scar between my breasts, reverential and possessive, sparking memories and wishes and desires in the wake of his blazing touch. And, when he reached the bottom of that puckered red line, he brushed the curve of my breast with the backs of his fingers so delicately, a chill rushed across my hot skin, peaking my nipple with anticipation.
He spoke, a gravelly rumble. “I will never know greater fortune than having you for my own. Not as long as I live.”
And as if to seal that vow, he brought his lips to mine with deep emotion, with a hundred things said and unsaid passing between truthful lips.
My blind hands removed his jacket, my fingers working the knot at his neck, then the buttons of his shirt, then slipping into the warm space between his shirt and his skin, relishing in the heat of his solid chest against my palms, the feel of his heart beating as wildly as mine.
He backed me toward the bed, pulling off his shirt when I sat on the edge with my lips waiting, my arms open. His pants were gone in a second along with his shoes and socks, leaving him in nothing but a sheath of black jersey that brought my eyes first to the span of his narrow waist, then to the rigid column of his length, then to the tops of his thighs where the tight fabric clung to the thick cords of muscles.
But my eyes wanted more, wanted him exposed as I wanted to be exposed. I wanted to give him every soft, vulnerable part of me. And he saw the offering and filled my arms to claim it, laying me down, pressing me into the luxurious bed with his body.
Of all the times we had kissed in my room, of all the times we had brushed the edge of desire, never had we erased the boundary so resolutely. He’d touched me before but never like this. I’d felt the length of him against me, but never had I been able to relish in the strength of it or the heat of my need, heat that pooled low in my belly. Heat that spawned tendrils of steam, curling down with slow fingers to lick at the aching tip of my desire.
My hips rolled, seeking connection, seeking pressure, seeking him.
He listened to the hum of my body, knowing what I wished for. And so, down my body his lips moved and across my jaw, down the length of my outstretched neck, brushing my collarbone in a soft, wet trail, climbing down me as he went, settling his torso between my thighs, opening them up to accommodate the breadth of his chest.
His lips took their time when they reached my breasts, and he took his pleasure there, the swell in his big palm, his hot mouth over my tight nipple. And with every sweep of his tongue, with every gentle graze of his teeth, with every quiet moan of appreciation, a shock of fire rushed to my core, fanning the flames he’d already built.
I had no idea what I wanted or needed, but my body knew, and Greg knew, and neither of them needed me to think, which was fortunate for all of us.
His mouth vanished, leaving my slick nipple pulling almost painfully taut, the warmth of his lips gone. But he had another purpose, one that called those lips over the curves of my stomach, one that had his fingers hooked in the band of lace at my waist to rid us both of its obstruction.
I lay in the bed, my chest heaving and lips swollen, my eyes on his hands as he slid the black lace down my thighs; my skin tingled in its wake, a ghost trail of his touch. His eyes met mine for a moment, as if asking permission again, and I whispered a plea that seemed to fill him with single-minded purpose, which he applied at the place where my thighs met.
Under my legs he went, his hands guiding my thighs to rest on the rippling muscles of his shoulders. I watched him with a thundering heart and an emptiness between my legs that I’d never felt before, but his eyes were on the warm, waiting juncture at his fingertips.