Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(18)
She smiled warmly. “Yes. I love her unreasonably much. Is that what you mean?” she asked again.
“It is, yes.” He was done conversing. His body was on fire, and it wasn’t the bourbon. He was feeling a kind of overpowering desire—a need—he hadn’t felt since Maggie had been strong and well. “Carmen…”
He shifted on the sofa, moving toward her, ready to take hold of her, but she stood abruptly and reached for the forgotten, empty glass that was still in his hand. She set it on the table next to her empty wine glass. Then she held out her hand.
“C’mon. Bed’s this way.”
She led him into another airy, spacious room. Not palatial in scope or appointment. Cozy and comfortable, done in warm neutrals and simple antiques.
“Your friend has great taste.”
“Yeah, she does.” Her voice was muffled; she already had her black tank pulled halfway off. Apparently, there would be no sensual mutual undressing.
But Theo couldn’t simply begin shedding his clothes. What was before him was too beautiful a sight to miss. Not seeming to notice her avid audience, Carmen discarded her little top, then toed off her boots—the same low-heeled boots she’d worn the night before—then opened her belt and jeans and rid herself of them, as well. Wearing nothing but a matching set of black lace underwear—bra and thong—she walked to a mirrored dresser and pulled the elastic free of her hair. She tousled her hair then, so that the part that had been banded settled in with the rest.
Still not paying him any attention, she turned to the windows, which were covered only by sheer under-panels. The heavier drapes were tucked back behind decorative hooks. “Oh, shit,” she muttered and then went to drop the heavier material over the windows, giving them privacy. She turned to him.
“Sorry. At home, I don’t have curtains in my bedroom. I keep forgetting not to flash the neighbors across the way.”
She was standing there in her lovely, sexy dainties, showing a body more beautiful than any he’d seen. She was tall and lithe, the muscles in her back, legs, arms, belly flexing subtly but visibly as she moved. Her breasts were fantastic—larger than average but firm and round. Maggie had been smaller than average in every way. He’d loved her body, cherished it as he’d cherished her. But she had not been the kind of beauty who might have stopped traffic.
Carmen could stop traffic in space.
A bolt of guilt sliced through his thoughts, the first he’d felt. Being with Carmen was not wrong. He felt no guilt for what they were doing, about to do. Comparing Maggie against her, though—that was bad news. It was Carmen he was with, Carmen’s body he was about to have in his hands, so he set Maggie gently aside.
“Beautiful girl.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Carmen cocked her head and smiled.
As she reached with both hands around to her back, she retorted, “That’s cheesy as f*ck, you know.”
He went to her then and wrapped his hands around her arms, pulling them forward before she could unclasp her bra. “It’s accurate. And I want to do that.”
With a cheeky grin, she put her hands in the open collar of his shirt and began unbuttoning buttons. “You’re way behind me, though. Need to catch up.” As she undid each button, her fingers scratched gently at his chest, and then his belly. Sweet Christ, she felt good. Years since he’d been touched like this. Years.
When his shirt was open, she brought her hands to his shoulders and pushed the fabric from them. He shrugged and let it fall to the floor behind him. She noticed his ink, her eyes widening as her fingers traced the black-and-grey piece from shoulder to elbow on his right arm. A highly stylized landscape scene: mountains, pines, and wind. Home.
“You surprise me.” Her voice had a husky tone that he felt right in his cock.
“Why?”
“You didn’t strike me as a man who would have ink—especially not a big piece like this.” She smiled. “Maybe some silly reminder of a drunken night with the frat brothers—a Superman emblem or something. But not this.” Her hand slid over the piece and down his arm, circling the leather cuff at his wrist.
A light ripple of offense went through him. With his other hand, he lifted her chin until her eyes met his. “What does that mean?”
Unapologetic, she shrugged. “You know. Writer. Poet. Sensitive soul. Puffy white shirts, not badass body art.”
“Ouch.” But he couldn’t find a strong foundation for offense, not while her hands were on him, not while she stood there before him, smiling at him, her body warm and supple and offered to him.
She grinned up at him, and it was all sex. “Well, you’ve shown me my error, that’s for sure. Jesus, you’re gorgeous.”
Then her hands were on him with more intent, tracing the line of his shoulders, then down, over his chest, pausing to tweak lightly at his nipples before moving down the center of his belly and then hooking into his jeans. His cock surged to sense her so close.
He stood there and let her, savoring the magnificent sensations of being touched in this way, and by a woman whose beautiful, dark eyes were fiery with desire. Her fingers came back up and moved through the hair on his chest, and she made a sound like a purr. For a moment longer, he closed his eyes and simply felt.
And then she lifted the pendants that lay at the top of his breastbone, and he opened his eyes. Shit. He should have taken those off. Wait—should he have? What would it mean if he did?