She couldn’t help but smile, remembering their first kiss. Her first kiss ever, where he taught her what to do, how to respond.
She’d done a lot of kissing since then, but never with anyone who mattered quite as much as the man in her arms now.
“Kiss me, Kath,” he whispered. “Kiss me like you mean it.”
Oh, she meant it. Meant it with all her heart. She parted her lips and met his tongue with gentle, silky strokes.
He tasted of peppermint, of maleness, of memory. Suddenly she couldn’t hold him close enough, couldn’t kiss him hard enough. As their tongues intertwined, raw guttural moans escaped her throat. She trailed her fingers over his broad, beefy shoulders, his hard chest, plucked open the buttons of his shirt and entwined her fingers in the dark curls covering his pecs. She found a flat nipple, tugged at it, loved how it hardened beneath her fingertips.
And still they kissed, as though they’d never kissed anyone before. He ate at her lips, nibbled, licked, sucked. She returned his passion with equal fervor, drawing his tongue into her mouth and sucking on it. Heat flared between her legs.
God, she was so turned on. More turned on than she’d ever been.
Well, not ever. But not for a very long time.
Suddenly she wanted him. Wanted him inside her. Wanted to make love with Brett Falcone more than she wanted to breathe.
He broke the kiss and inhaled sharply. “God, Kath.” His lips rained kisses on her cheeks, her nose, the sensitive flesh of her neck. She shuddered, her pussy pulsed. She was wet, so wet. So aroused from just a kiss.
But it wasn’t just a kiss.
It was a kiss from Brett Falcone. The only man she had ever truly loved.
He sucked at her neck while his hands cupped her breasts through her blouse. Her nipples tightened into aching buds that longed for his lips to suck them, kiss them.
As though he read her mind, he tugged her blouse out of her jeans. The hot flesh of his roving fingers burned. Oh, so good.
“So soft,” he whispered. “God, I need to touch you.”
“Touch me,” she whimpered. “Please.”
He reached between her breasts and unsnapped the front closure to her bra. “Mmm. As full as I remember. Fuller even.”
“Having a baby does that,” she said, her voice breathless.
“Your nipples are hard, Kath. So hard. God, I want to suck on them.”
“No one—” she inhaled a sharp breath “—stopping you that I can see.”
“God,” he said again. He lifted her blouse over her head and discarded her bra. She stood, naked from the waist up, as Brett Falcone’s dark, smoldering gaze burned into her flesh. And burn it did. She was hot, so very hot.
“Still so beautiful,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I always imagined you’d still be as beautiful as the day I first saw you naked, but I never hoped it would be true. You’re amazing, Kath.”
“Take off your shirt,” Kathryn said. “I want to see you. Feel you pressed against me. God, Brett. Please.”
His shirt quickly met the floor.
“Saints above.” She breathed in deeply. His chest was a work of art. Sculpted perfection. Golden skin covered with a smattering of ebony hair. More hair than she remembered. But of course, he had matured quite a bit since then. Two copper coin nipples poked through, their tips hardened and bronze. She reached for them, traced them, and she reveled in his intake of breath as they hardened even further against her questing fingertips.
She roamed downward, to the bulge in his jeans. She cupped it and squeezed.
“Damn, Kath.” He thrust into her hands.
Yes, she’d learned a few tricks since their last time together. Their only time together.
“Are you wet for me?” he asked.
She nodded, still squeezing his hardness through the thick denim. Oh yes, she was wet. Sopping.