Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(43)

His.

He reached out with his free hand to trace her mouth, the outline, where the skin turned from pink to ivory. She didn't move in any way, large gray eyes watching him, but he could feel the stir of air against his finger as she breathed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “I was too rough the other night. I don’t want to be rough.”

Her eyes searched his. She didn’t speak. He listened to the sound of her breathing in the quiet room. “You won’t be,” she murmured finally and his heart kicked its rate up.

It’s time.

She knew, too. She felt it too, this rightness, this inevitability.

Don’t let me mess this up. John sent up a silent prayer to whoever it was who watched over soldiers. Take it easy. Go slow.

His finger moved from her mouth to her cheekbone, tracing the fine line of it, skimming over the barely-visible scab where a shard of brick had grazed her cheek. By a miracle, the bullet had smashed into the wall, not into her.

So close. So damned close.

The skin of his hand was dark and rough against the pale smoothness of hers. He moved his hand gently over her cheekbone, letting his fingers roam. The outline of her face, a shapely oval, down over the delicate jawbone, up over her mouth again, then back down to the smooth expanse of her neck. His finger dwelled on her pulse point, feeling the slow steady beat of her heart and as his eyes rose to meet hers, he could feel the exact moment her pulse speeded up. Moving his hand down, his finger caught on the high-necked flannel nightgown and he waited, every muscle in his body clenched, his dick pulsing with anticipation.

They watched each other; John totally unsure of what he should do—what he could do—next.

Suzanne reached up with her hand and touched his, moving it aside. He wanted to howl with frustration. If she didn’t want this now, he’d… but no. That wasn’t it.

She’d moved his hand aside so she could unbutton the neckline herself, slowly. He watched, fascinated, as one by one she slipped the little pink and white buttons through the buttonholes, unbuttoning them all, stopping when the buttons stopped, below her breasts. She lay her hand on her stomach, watching him. Waiting.

His call.

He knew exactly what to do now. Trying not to be too eager, trying not to shake, trying hard not to—shit!—rip the cloth…

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She laughed. Yes, thank you, God. That soft sound was actually a laugh. She was laughing at his clumsiness and she was right to. He chanced a smile himself. Her lips turned up in a wide smile in return.

She shook her head. “You’re going to have to start buying me underwear and nightgowns if you keep this up.”

Oh, yeah. “Yes,” he said fervently. “Panties by the dozen, a gross of nightgowns. Yes.” He opened the nightgown and went still.

“Oh, John.” Her voice was a mere whisper and the smile was gone. She saw what was in his eyes as he spread the wings of the nightgown. She was laid out for him like a feast…

Pretty didn’t even begin to describe it. She wasn’t lushly built, like some women he’d had, who now seemed grossly overblown because this—this—was exactly what he wanted. This was what turned him on so badly he was trembling.

He just sat and stared, hoping some blood would eventually make a return journey from his groin to his brain. Opening the nightgown had been like opening an exquisite present to himself. Her smooth skin was so pale she probably never took the sun. She glowed like a pearl in the evening light, something so rare and delicate he was almost afraid to touch it.

Her breasts were round and firm, smaller than his cupped hand. He reached out and ran his finger—just the tip, so gently he was barely grazing her skin—over her right breast, following the line of a blue vein as visible as a river from a helicopter. He circled the aureole, excited as hell to see that she got goose-bumps and that the nipple turned deep rose and hard.

Take it easy, take it easy.

He just sat there for a long moment, getting his breathing under control, hand curled around her breast.

“We’ve got to get this thing off you.” He removed his hand because otherwise he’d tear the thing off and he knew for a fact that Fork in the Road didn’t run to delicate pink nightgowns. “Can you do it?”

“Okay.” Watching him closely, Suzanne sat up, bunched the pink material in her hands and pulled. She wasn’t wearing panties. John watched, fascinated, as the gown uncovered long, lovely legs, round hips, a tiny waist, then was pulled up over her head, tossed to the side and then yes! There she was. Naked.

Just for him.

The other night he hadn’t had a chance to see all of her. He’d stripped her and entered her before her clothes had fluttered to the ground. He’d been way too far gone to notice anything at all other than the tight, wet heat of her. But now, ah, God, now here she was. If he hadn’t been hard as steel, ready to explode, he’d have spent the next couple of hours just looking and touching that soft soft skin, noticing the sharp indentation under the rib cage where her waistline narrowed, then curved out again, marveling at how delicately she was built. How did all of her organs fit inside?

He’d think about that later. Now he wanted—no, needed—to touch his mouth to her.

Leaning forward, he placed his lips on her neck, where the pulse was fluttering wildly. He could feel how the touch of his mouth excited her.