Do I Know You?(55)

I’m honestly impressed when Graham’s eyebrows rise only slightly. Even to me, the question felt like plunging down a roller-coaster drop while forcing myself not to scream.

Which makes me want to push us further. I cock my head, playing curious. “Unless you invited me to your room for something else?”

“No. I didn’t.” Graham swaggers in my direction, recovering his stability. He’s good. He’s very good. He plants his feet in front of me, some inches separating us, like he’s showing off his self-control. “I just didn’t expect you to be so . . . direct,” he says.

Fuck your self-control. I want his heart galloping like mine. I want him stiff in the front of his pants, like when we were dancing. I want him driving his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from ripping the clothes from my body. I want him to feel like I feel.

“What?” I whisper. I step up to him, making my limbs soft and seductive. “Was your wife not direct?”

He swallows. “She made what she wanted clear,” he replies. “Just not quite this frankly.”

“Do you like it?” I rasp.

His expression flashes desperately. He nods, his throat bobbing.

I don’t even know myself right now. The guttural Eliza cooing to the man in front her while pressure pounds between her legs isn’t just in control of Graham—which she is, I know from the shipwrecked look in his eyes—she’s in control of me.

I love her. I unleash her.

“Then undress me,” I say.

The invitation consumes him. I watch the moment it does. Usually, I undress myself—often quickly, only logistics. We’ve had sex so many times, removing my shirt or my underwear feels like nothing.

Tonight, it does not feel like nothing. Concert violinists have bowed their instruments with grace outdone by the way Graham’s fingers slide under the straps of my dress, removing them delicately from my shoulders, his touch sending shivers down me. Nerves explode in my stomach when, in one impossibly smooth motion, he unzips the zipper, dropping the black pool of my dress to my feet.

I feel Graham go still, lost in the sight of my lingerie.

The moments when I fretted over Nikki’s gift, the way every sculpted, lacy hem seemed to laugh in my face, feel like some other life. No one or nothing is laughing now. Graham is silent, his whole existence fixed on the fabric curving perfectly over my hips and chest.

Moving like he’s possessed, Graham’s hands slide up my sides to my breasts. Then, though, it’s my Graham who takes over. I know because his gentle fingers find the chain where I’ve kept my wedding band. He thumbs the rings, noting their presence, the fact I never took them off.

We don’t speak, though. We don’t have to.

I sit down on the bed, where I work on Graham’s belt buckle while he stays standing, his breathing heavy. When my hand brushes the hardness in his pants, which is no surprise but no less exhilarating, he exhales deeply, his eyes fluttering closed.

The excitement we felt on the walk here prodded us with prickling fingers. Now, it’s got us firmly in its grip.

His pants fall. Hurriedly, forcing myself not to fumble, I continue to his shirt, unbuttoning with near-frantic eagerness. Exposing the flat stomach I saw poolside, when I didn’t want to tear my eyes from him. Now, I’d rather do other things. I kiss him there while I work, finding his hand cupping the curve of my neck in return, his lips finding the top of my head, unimaginably delicate.

Once I’ve pushed his shirt from his shoulders, I slide back on the bed until I reach the pillows. The lace of the lingerie is impossibly smooth on the sheets. Graham’s eyes trace every delicate frill, every stretch where skin peeks through. My chest heaves under the crimson bra. Sometimes, good lingerie makes you feel like you’re not wearing anything at all.

I nestle into the pillows, heart pounding. The hushed hotel room, this extravagant underwear—everything contributes to the feeling of newness. Like we’re really strangers. Like this really is our first time.

I hold on to the feeling hungrily, wrapping myself in our pretense while Graham slides one finger up the outside of my thigh, then drags the underwear down my legs. Somewhere between devotion and desperation, he presses his face into what he’s exposed.

When he kisses me deeply—not on the mouth—heat explodes in me.

I could lose myself right here. Instead, I fight through the feeling, restraining myself while I grope for inspiration. I want to do something new. Something to keep surprising ourselves, to keep this mystique between us.

I grasp on to an idea, and shudder out my order. “I want you to lie down,” I say.

Graham looks up, his eyes glazed with desire. He knows exactly what I’m doing. This Eliza is taking charge.

“Tell me what you want. Tell me everything you want.” His stare sears into me. “This is our first time—it’s important we get it right.”

I wonder if he knows how perfectly his words strike on exactly what I’m feeling, like a match swiped on a rough surface hissing into flame. I’m pretty sure he does. He’s smirking when he crawls onto the comforter next to me and permits me to gently push him over, until he’s lying flat.

Savoring the stretch of him under me, the symmetry of his freckle-scattered chest, the shoulders I’m going to run my hands over, I place my knees on either side of his body. Mesmerized, he moves his hands to the elusive soft skin of my pelvis. It makes me slicker, which he’ll know soon enough. Slowly, I move up his body until I’m closer to his face, over him so he can kiss me there again.