She pulled back.
“No,” he said, “no, don’t move away.” He cupped her bottom, lifted her into him. She gasped at the feel of him and the sound of that gasp sent heat racing through him. “I only meant—if we go too fast… I want this to last, sweetheart. And if you move against me—”
He kissed her throat. Her head fell back and he kissed her throat again, but the sweater was in the way.
“Wait,” he said, and he eased the sweater up over her head, over her arms.
Better. So much better. The simple cotton T. The softness of it. And, oh yes, she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Kaz cupped one hand over her breast.
She cried out. Her nipple jutted into his palm. He bent his head. Kissed her breasts through the thin cotton. Caught one nipple, then the other lightly between his teeth.
She sobbed. Her knees buckled. He caught her in his arms and took her to the bed.
He undressed her. Slowly. Slowly enough to make the blood seem to run thick in his veins. First her boots. Then her black tights. He drew back and looked at her, so lovely, so beautiful in low-cut white cotton panties and the little white T-shirt.
He could have looked at her forever, his gaze sweeping over the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the swift rise and fall of her breasts.
“Now you,” she whispered.
He nodded. Rose to his feet. Toed off his shoes, took off his suit jacket, undid his belt, Jesus, his fingers felt thick, clumsy, and he thought To hell with this! and he tore off all the rest, left on only his boxer briefs because of the way she was looking at him, wide-eyed, her cheeks rosy, her expression a little fearful…
No. No, it wasn’t possible.
This couldn’t be her first time.
He wouldn’t want that.
Ah, God, he ached for that.
To be her first lover. The first man to know her.
It was a ridiculous thought, and why was he wasting time, thinking? He grabbed his trousers, dug out his wallet, prayed that he had condoms in it.
He did.
But he didn’t want one yet. Not yet. Not until she was ready for him, ready for him…
He sat down beside her and gathered her in his arms, kissed her until her lips were soft and yielding, until she was moving restlessly against him.
He sat her up.
Pulled the T over her head.
Her hands flew to her breasts.
“No,” he said, gently circling her wrists with his fingers, “no, sweetheart, let me see you.”
He brought her hands to her sides.
And looked at her.
His throat constricted.
Her breasts were small. Perfect. Rounded, with nipples the color of pale apricots. Did they taste like apricots? He bent his head to her, licked one nipple. She cried out, arched like a bow. He sucked the nipple into the heat of his mouth. Honey again, and cream, and vanilla, and a taste that was all hers, only hers.
“Kazimir.”