“I can smell you, Abigail.”
“You… you can… what?”
“I can smell your fear.” I slide my hand along her ribs with the intention to touch her tits, but when she angles away and practically sobs, I keep moving and instead cup her jaw. “I can smell your desire. I can smell your reluctance, but underneath it, I know I smell your acceptance.”
I bring her wineglass up a second time, offer it, and slowly pour when she opens her lips.
“Please tell me someone has touched you before. Please tell me this innocence thing you have going on is an act.”
Swallowing the fruity wine down, she stares at my jaw and shakes her head.
“No?” I bring the last of the wine up and swallow it in one go. I’m tired of holding it and being unable to touch her.
A plastic trashcan sits in the corner by the sinks, so I toss the glass and pray for the muffledthwump, rather than shattered glass on tile.
When it lands on used paper towel and doesn’t shatter, I turn back to Abigail, and grin. “No, you haven’t been touched, or no, you’re not going to tell me?”
“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
I bring the delicate flower to her jaw and slide it over her sensitive flesh. “You’re like a playground for me, Priss. Shiny and new, unspoiled ground, and proper enough that when you finally relax and accept we’re gonna be explosive, it’ll be like I won a war.”
“A war you started with words.” She’s breathless and probably wouldn’t be standing if it wasn’t for my body pinning her to the stall door, but she’s still stubborn enough to push her point home. “Words are powerful, Spencer.”
“Okay.”
I slide the flower over her neck, over the hollow above her collarbone, and then smile when she gulps and her skin breaks out in new goosebumps. My brain spins out of control.
Leave her be, she’s too pure for you. Take her, claim her, own her. Leave her be, we don’t touch the innocent. Fuck her, and forever be the guy that took the thing she can only give away once.
“I’m going to touch you now.”
“You’re…” Her eyes change from mellow and all sex to full-blown panic. “What?”
I slide my right hand down and drag her skirt up to reveal silky soft thighs. I don’t lean back to look, because if I give her space, I have no doubt she’ll run, so I look with my hands. I grin when the skirt finishes bunching, and then I walk my fingers to her apex and tap at her clit until she jumps and slams her head to the underside of my jaw.
Any other chick, any other time, and I’d walk away. I don’t do innocent, and I don’t do clumsy. She’s both, and I want someone in bed that won’t be terrified to let me touch her. But we’re not in bed, and she’s panting so hard, I worry she might drop if I let her go.
Most women would wear lace lingerie beneath a gown of this caliber, but Abigail wears cotton that covers her up completely. I slide my hand around her hip to give her a moment to breathe, and cup her barely-there ass. Her undies aren’t even the cheeky kind, but full bikini briefs that should be a turn-off.
But she’s captured me, for tonight at least.
“Spencer…” She gulps. “We… I… I don’t think…”
“Let me try something, Priss.”
I bring my hand around the front again, and slip my fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear.
Abigail practically melts in my arms, and I don’t mean the good melt, but the kind where her brain short circuits, and she probably loses consciousness.
I lean back a little to catch her eyes, but they’re scrunched closed so little wrinkles fan out from the corners, and her eyebrows practically meet in the middle.
“Look at me, Priss.”
She shakes her head with violent little jerks.
I grin. “Fine. Hold on.”
Her eyes shoot open with surprise, but slam shut again when I take her mouth with mine and kiss her in a way I’m not sure she’s ever been kissed before. I nibble on her bottom lip, and when she opens her mouth, I slide my tongue in at the very same moment I breach her opening with my finger.