Sometimes a man had to follow a hunch. And his led him straight to Kim.
Once they arrived, he helped her shed her coat and boots and started a fire, something Moose and Clyde—his fat black cats—appreciated. They curled up on opposite ends of the rug in front of the fire while he turned on some music.
“You’re not going to put on one of those booty-popping-type songs, are you? I’m sure they set someone’s mood but they don’t really work for me.”
He glanced back at Kim where she perched on the edge of his couch, copper-painted toes curling into the carpet. She’d let her hair down after they’d come in and he wished he’d gotten to handle the task. Those were the things he missed most—the little intimacies between couples. Undressing, layer by layer. Observing her while she shed her bracelets and watch as she was doing right now, energy shimmering off her in waves. She was excited or tense, he couldn’t quite tell which. Maybe both.
“How’s this?” he asked after selecting a CD. The smooth notes of Frank Sinatra poured out of the speakers.
“An inspired choice. And a surprising one. You’re a man of mystery, Michael Montgomery.”
“Good mystery or bad?” He crossed the room to the bar and reached beneath to pull out the bottle of Pinot Noir he’d optimistically purchased that afternoon. “Before you answer that, you should know I didn’t buy this to lure you into my bed.”
She lifted her eyebrow as he walked over to her and offered her a glass. “Last night you only lured me to your sofa. Your bedroom would be an upgrade.”
“Smart mouth.” He clinked his glass with hers and took an experimental sip. Fruity flavors flowed over his tongue, smooth and rich.
“You have no idea.” She saluted him and drank.
Examining her face for tells was like studying a master poker player. She gave so little away. “Do you like it?”
“Mmm. Good choice.” She took another sip and set the glass aside.
“Must not be if you’re not drinking any.” Maybe she wasn’t, but he was.
“Tonight I intend to have all my faculties.”
He peered into the crystal and wondered how many glasses he could have without affecting performance. Probably not many, since his performance was a dubious prospect to start with. “Two shouldn’t affect mine much.”
Finishing off his glass, he walked back to the bar and poured himself another. After two sips, he set it down. This one he would nurse.
A low hum buzzed through his bloodstream. Whether that was the wine or Kim, he couldn’t be sure. But when he returned to her, held out his hand and murmured, “Dance with me,” he knew the instant she placed her palm in his.
It was her. All her.
Drawing her into his arms, he whirled her into the center of the room. She laughed and hung on to his shoulders, her hair flying out, her eyes lively with mirth. Her lips were parted and damp from the wine he tasted as he brushed his mouth over hers. Barely making contact. Their bodies ground together in some weird combination of salsa and swing and modern dance. He’d taken lessons with Roch years ago and Kim had a few moves of her own. She kept time with him easily, showing no fear at his dips and lifts. They danced with no effort at all.
She undressed him the same way. The heat from the fire and their exertions glowed in her witchy eyes while she opened buttons and nipped at exposed skin. She didn’t speak, tracing patterns through his shirt then on bare flesh. He let her lead that dance and he led the other, twirling her around the room, tiptoeing around cats and furniture, spinning, spinning, spinning until he fell backward onto the couch with her in his arms. Soft, willing woman. Kissing him with such hunger and no reserve at all, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips rubbing madly at his for what he could only imagine and couldn’t quite wrap his head around.
Right now, he believed her when she said sex was supposed to be good enough to make a person want to die. If she was to be his death, she would be his rebirth as well.
“Off, off,” she mumbled against his mouth, dragging at his sleeves. She removed his shirt and heaved it into a corner, immediately setting upon on his belt and zipper.
“Hang on.” He snatched the foil packet from his wallet—a recent addition—and dropped it beside them, then let her continue her task. She pulled his pants and boxers down, remembering at the last minute that he still wore his shoes. After sliding to the floor, she settled between his legs to untie the laces. She tossed those too, following them with his socks. And then she went back to his pants and boxers, easing them down with a sense of pomp that made him waver between laughter and reverence.
Somehow he’d picked exactly the right person for this. For everything.
She crawled back up into his arms, still fully dressed, and wound her fingers into his hair, bringing her lips to his forehead. She kissed every part of his face while Frank sang about New York, the swell of the horns echoing in his body as she trailed over his nose, his eyelids, his cheekbones, finally finding his mouth. Taking it with an urgency that vibrated through her and poured into him. He grabbed her hips and centered her groin over his, pulling down to create more of that delicious friction. Her clothes twisting against his flesh were an exquisite torture but she didn’t seem in any hurry to alleviate his torment.
And then it got worse. So much worse.
Her lips roved down his neck, setting nerves aflame he hadn’t realized he had. He would never forget now. She sparked fires with her fingers and her breath, teasing him to a level he’d never known. Sexual excitement merged with joy and affection, becoming something so pure he lost his air each time their eyes met.
She filled her hands with him, cupping his cock, his balls, tasting both, offering him her enjoyment as a gift to share. Coaxing him past hardness to the point of pain and beyond, keeping him there with flicks of her tongue and long sweeps of her fingers. She explored all of him then did it all again, taking his length deep into her throat while Frank sang about strangers in the night and the firelight blurred from the sweat dripping into his eyes.
When he gripped a handful of hair to tug her back, she only took him further, swallowing him with such enthusiasm that his thighs shook with the effort it took to hold back. Blowing in her throat would be so incredible—and so not what he wanted from their first time.
She didn’t relent. The light from the fire danced over her hollowed cheeks, giving him no choice except to gather her hair, to draw it away so he could sketch the scene in his mind. He wasn’t an artist by a long shot but he’d spent enough time in Rand’s classes to pick up techniques. She was all heat and color and smells, infusing his world. Grape-flavored kisses, that tropical, earthy scent in her hair, vanilla behind her ears. He couldn’t take it all in. Electricity zipped over his skin with every patient and not so patient lap of her tongue.