Hold Me Close

by Rosalind James

  She turned her head, buried her nose in his shirt to smell it some more, and then her mouth was moving despite every resolution, every fear, every better intention. She kissed the warm brown triangle of skin at the neckline of his flannel shirt, between his collarbones, then moved her face over the column of his neck and kissed him there, too, his skin warm beneath her mouth.

  His arms had tightened around her, and his entire body had stiffened. “Kayla . . .”

  “Yeah.” It was a sigh, because the announcers were talking faster than ever now, and something was definitely happening. “I know your game’s still on. Maybe . . . afterwards. Maybe we could . . . try some more.”

  She felt the jerk of his laughter. “Nope.” He was walking her backwards into the living room, then reaching a hand down for the remote and switching the sound off. And then he was sitting down in his leather chair and taking her with him, straight into his lap.

  This time, she was the one stiffening. He sensed it, because he let go of her and said, “It’s OK. Yes or no. It’s OK.”

  “I just want to . . . I just want to kiss you. Sit here and kiss you. Can we . . . can we do that? Just that?”

  She could hear the sound of his breath leaving his lungs. “Yeah. We can do that. Tell you what, I’ll just kiss you a little bit here. Any time you want to get up and leave, you stand right on up, and we’re done. How’s that?”

  She’d relaxed again, because one big hand was at the nape of her neck, rubbing over the delicate skin there, smoothing its way down her back, and she needed to be closer. “I don’t want to get up and leave,” she said. “I want you to kiss me. I want to feel you.”

  He groaned. “Oh, man. I am so screwed.”

  She had to laugh in surprise. A laugh that was choked off, because one of his hands had turned her by the shoulder, and the other one was at her face, tracing its way over her cheek. And then it was behind her head. Not pulling her. Guiding her.

  Her mouth met his. Just the lightest, gentlest brush, and it didn’t matter, because the sparks went straight down her body. She opened her mouth, gasped a little, and he was kissing her again. Long, slow, and sweet, his mouth moving on hers. No need to rush. No need to stop.

  His tongue came out to trace her upper lip. “Love this,” he murmured. “So pretty.” His lips trailed over her cheek, made their slow, deliberate way to her ear, and her own lips tingled and felt the loss of him. Then he was kissing the delicate skin beneath her ear, finding a special spot, a really good spot, and she was squirming.

  “Like that, huh?” he asked against her neck, and she whimpered, shivered, and shifted in his lap. He uttered a soft exclamation, and his mouth was over hers again.

  Not quite so slow, not quite so sweet. Hotter, and harder, and better. Her mouth was opening, and his tongue was there. Not invading, not choking. Playing, and dancing, and tasting.

  He still wasn’t touching her. Or, rather, he wasn’t touching her where she was burning. And she needed him to. So she reached a hand up, took hold of his where he had it cupped over the back of her head, and moved it to her breast, and he sat stock-still for a moment. And then his hand began to move.

  He still didn’t grab her. Instead, he traced the soft curve of her breast through the fine wool of her sweater, and then the backs of his fingers were trailing down the edge of the V-neck. So gently. Whisper light. Not nearly enough.

  “Touch me,” she begged. She shifted again, squirming a little now. “Inside my sweater. Please.”

  He took his time even so, his fingers tracing their slow path, then moving over her breast until, finally, when she couldn’t stand it another moment, they found a nipple that had been diamond hard and begging for his touch since he had pulled her into his lap, and she gasped.

  “Please, Luke. Do that some more. Please.”

  “Mmm.” He smiled against her mouth, then angled her head with his free hand so he could kiss her more deeply, and now his tongue was playing hard. Plunging and retreating, and she was rocking on him, needing the rhythm. Needing him now.

  She could have screamed with it by the time his fingers were trailing over the flesh between her breasts again, then making their stealthy way inside her neckline. But not going all the way. When he touched her nipple through the lace of her bra, she jumped. And when his fingers began a lazy circling, she moaned.

  “Aw, Kayla,” he groaned. “You’re killing me.” And she loved hearing it.

  “I want to . . . I want to touch you, too.” His fingers were still moving, and all at once, she was impatient. She wanted his skin under her palms, wanted to feel his heart beat, wanted to trace the curves and ridges of hard muscle. She wanted it now. So she sat back and began to unbutton the flannel shirt, her fingers trembling a little, and his head was back against the leather, letting her do it.

  “Too many clothes,” she muttered, because he had on a white muscle shirt under the flannel.

  He laughed, a husky sound, and his hands lifted, then fell. “I’m trying . . .” he said, his voice strained. “Trying not to grab, and it’s so hard. I want to hold you so much.”

  And still, he didn’t. She got the buttons undone all the way to his belt, wanting to keep going, to touch him there, where he was hot and hard and wanting her. She’d done that to him, and he was holding back all the same. The thought gave her courage, and she pulled the tails of the shirt out of his jeans and unbuttoned the last few buttons, then was taking it off him and dropping it to the floor.

  Then it was time to work on his undershirt. She tugged that out of his waistband as well, and her palms were under it, running over silky skin, the rasp of hair and the hard muscle underneath, and he was the one shifting now. She kept tugging, and his abdomen was exposed, every wonderful ridge of it. A little higher, and the shirt was over his chest, her palms following it, stroking over the slab of pectorals, feeling him flinch as she caressed the flat brown nipples. He was as sensitive as she was. He needed this as much as she did. She knew it.

  She pulled the shirt over his head, sent it to join the other one, and he was there. Big and hard and beautiful, all shoulders, broad chest, biceps, and bulge of forearms. Her hands couldn’t get enough, were stroking him, greedy for him, and the sound of his heavy breathing was clearly audible in the quiet room.

  “I need to touch you more,” she said. “I need to . . . we need to lie down.”

  “Oh, yeah. Oh, hell, yeah.” He was up, had hold of her hand, was leading her up the stairs to his bedroom, and she was coming along, because there wasn’t a choice.

  He took her down a hallway lit only by a night-light, then into a darkened room, where he let go of her to flip on a bedside light and pull back the covers on a king-sized bed with a huge slatted headboard. A massive, solid piece of furniture, masculine and uncompromising. Too much like Alan’s bed, and suddenly, just like that, like a dose of ice water over her heated body, she was right back there.

  Luke turned to her now, moved to kiss her, then stepped back. “What is it?”

  “It’s . . .” She swallowed. “Nothing.” She’d come this far. She couldn’t back down, because he’d be so mad, and he’d have every right to be. She couldn’t tease him like that and walk out.

  “Aw, damn.” His hand came up to trace her cheek again. “First time. I should’ve thought. It was bad, wasn’t it? Before?”

  She nodded jerkily. “Yes. And I want to, but I just don’t know if I can. I know it’s not fair to you. But I don’t know if I can.”

  “No. That’s not what isn’t fair. Want me to take you home?”

  “No.” She leaned into his hand, turned her head to kiss his palm. “No. But can we . . . can we go slow? Can I just . . . try?”

  He exhaled. “Yeah. We can go slow. We can—” He stopped. “We’re going to do something a little different here. Something to make you feel safe.”

  “Uh . . . OK.” Sa
fe? How?

  He was opening a dresser drawer and pulling out a length of black. Coming back to her, then, but not touching her. Instead, he handed her a narrow, black silk scarf, then lay down in the middle of the bed and stretched his arms overhead to grab the slats. “You take that,” he told her, “and tie my wrists to the bed.”

  “What?”

  “Tie me down so I can’t touch you. So it’s all about what you want to do. Anything you want to do. Untie me if you want to, when it’s time, once you’re sure. Or untie me and go home. Your choice. Your call.”

  She stood, pulling the fabric through her hands, and shifted from foot to foot. This was crazy. “Do you . . . is this what you like?” she asked doubtfully.

  He laughed, and she couldn’t help laughing, too, if only from surprise. “No,” he said. “That’s not why I have that. But I’m equal opportunity. I can enjoy most things, and I’m pretty sure I can enjoy this. First time for everything. So if you want me—” He smiled up at her, slow and sweet and easy. “Here I am. Yours to use.”

  He was going to let her do it, and she wanted to try. He was right. She would be safe, and besides—besides, she wanted to see him naked. She wanted to touch him. So she knelt on the bed with the scarf, but it was too awkward. She was going to have to straddle him. She put a tentative knee across his body, scooted up, and leaned over him, and he sucked in a breath.

  “Man,” he muttered. “I knew my sins were going to catch up with me.”

  She laughed a little unsteadily, threaded the length of black fabric through the slats of the headboard, then tied it around his strong wrists, the veins standing out now with the force of his fingers tightening around the wood. His brown eyes burned into hers, and he wasn’t smiling now. And then she scooted down his body, climbed off the bed, and looked at him.

  He was beautiful. His arms and shoulders chiseled and powerful, the silky dark hair beneath his arms asking her to touch it. Another dusting of hair across his broad chest, narrowing to a trail leading down his belly and disappearing into the top of his jeans.

  She was going to kiss him. She was going to touch him. But she needed . . . something. She needed help.

  “Do you have music?” she asked him.

  “Uh . . .” He nodded his head toward the dresser, and she walked over to it, so conscious of his eyes on her, and put a little extra sway in her step.

  “Playlist on there,” he said, his voice sounding a bit strangled.

  “Would it be this one?” she asked, flipping through the device. “The one named, ‘Sex’?”

  “That would be the one. I’m not too subtle sometimes.”

  She selected the list, set the device into the speakers, pushed “Play,” and the music had started, slow, soft, and sweet.

  “Mm,” she said. “That is sexy. Yeah. That’s good. And it’s OK that you’re not subtle, because I’m going to be subtle enough for both of us. I’m going to be slow, and subtle, and oh, Luke, I’m going to have fun with you.”

  He shifted a little and groaned, and she came back to the bed and climbed on. Onto the bed, and onto him. She ran her hands from his wrists to his shoulders, one long, slow caress, then took his mouth in a kiss, let her tongue come out to play, and felt him shift again.

  “But we need candles,” she murmured against his mouth.

  “Oh, holy hell,” he moaned. “Uh . . . they’re there. Matches in the bedside table drawer.”

  He was right. A white pillar candle stood on each table, and the matches were in the drawer, right next to the condoms. She wasn’t sure how far her courage would take her, but as long as he was tied up, she had nothing to fear. She could do whatever she wanted.

  She lit the candles, turned out the light, and looked at him. Oh, that was so much better. The driving, slow beat of the music, the dance of light and shadow over his skin. And best of all, his hungry eyes.

  She thought about undressing, but she wasn’t ready to go there yet. Too vulnerable. Too . . . naked. Instead, she got on the bed and straddled him again, farther down his body this time. She ran slow hands up from his belly to his chest, then lowered herself slowly down, braced a hand on either side of him, and began to kiss him. Licking over a nipple, hearing him hiss in a breath through his teeth, then drawing a slow path with her tongue to the other one. She lingered there, used her teeth a little bit on him, gave him some gentle suction. He was already writhing, and she’d barely started.

  She kissed her way down his ribs, all the way to the slit of his navel, loving the firmness of his ridged abdomen under her mouth. When she put a hand on his belt buckle, though, she paused. Could she do this?

  Yes. She could. He wanted it, and so did she. She wanted to see all of him, and it was safe to do it. He’d made it safe. So she sat back and drew the length of leather through the metal buckle, making it last. Then, finally, she popped the button on his jeans, took the tab of his zipper between finger and thumb, and began to lower it.

  It took some effort, because there was a lot of him in the way. A whole lot.

  “Oh, man,” she breathed. “Oh, Luke.”

  He didn’t answer. His chest was rising and falling as she got her hands under the waistband of his navy-blue boxer briefs. “Lift up,” she said, and he did, arching lean hips off the bed as she pulled his clothes off him. All the way down his body, taking care of his socks along the way.

  And there he was. Naked and ready. Big and powerful and all hers to explore.

  She started at his calves, stroked her hands up over them, feeling the rasp of hair under her palms. Up to his thighs, over his strongly defined runner’s quadriceps. Her hands delved between his legs, her thumbs traced their slow way up his inner thighs, and his hips were arching again.

  “Please.” It was a groan, and his eyes were squeezed shut now.

  When she touched him at last, stroked up and down the length of him, he groaned again, his tongue coming out to lick his lips.

  She set about exploring him, then. Slow, and then faster. Her other hand trailing over his abdomen, down his thigh, and he was moving, urgent.

  “Too fast,” he moaned. “Oh, God, Kayla. Too fast. You’re killing me.”

  She let go, and he shifted, his powerful arms straining against his bonds, and said, “I take it back. Don’t stop killing me.”

  She swung her leg over him again and sat up on her knees, her hands going to the buttons of her little sweater. Then she smiled at him, soft and sweet. “Want to see this?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

  “Then I’m going to show it to you.”

  And she did. She unbuttoned, one slow pearl at a time, tracing her fingers over her skin as she went, and then she arched her back and let the garment drop off her body until it trailed behind her from her wrists. His gaze was so hungry now, and the power rose, surging inside her. She stripped the sweater from her body, then, as he watched, flicked the front clasp on her lace bra and let it, too, drop over her shoulders and down her arms. And then she arched her back.

  “Do you like this?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “Yeah. Come on down here and let me show you.”

  “Mm.” Her heart was pounding, and more than her heart. She was so wet, so warm, and he hadn’t even touched her. But he was going to. She slid up his body, positioned herself over him, and he turned his head and found her.

  She gasped when his lips closed over her nipple, and when his teeth grazed it, her arms began to shake. Then he was sucking, and she was the one closing her eyes now.

  She held herself up and took it until she couldn’t stand it any longer, until she had to have more. “I need to . . .” she managed to say. “Oh, Luke. I need to take off my jeans.”

  He didn’t answer, because his mouth was busy, and his mind was gone, she could tell. She pushed his head away, and he looked up at her, his eyes
glazed, and said, “More.”

  “Yes.”

  She was on her knees again, straddling him, her hands going to the button of her jeans, and she wasn’t teasing anymore. She was unzipping, wriggling out of her jeans and socks until she was wearing only the lace bikinis that had matched the bra, and his chest was heaving.

  “Tell me I get to touch you,” he said. “Please.”

  She was already there, tugging at the scarf, clumsy in her haste. The instant he was free, his hands went to her hips, and he was pulling her down over him, kissing her, his hands stroking over her bottom, down her thighs, then up over her bare back, lingering at the curve of her waist. And every place those big hands touched, she burned.

  “I need to put you on your back,” he told her, when she came up for air.

  “Yes,” she said, and rolled with him so he was on top of her.

  It didn’t feel scary. It didn’t feel wrong. It only felt good. Luke’s hard, hot mouth on hers, his tongue invading, plunging. His hand going to her breast, his mouth moving down to the other one, and she was the one whose hips were rising now, urging him on.

  His hand was moving, then. Over her waist again, down her hip, across her thigh. “You’re so beautiful,” he told her. “So beautiful.” And then he was, finally, touching her where she needed him most, and if he’d leaped into her hand before, that was nothing to how she was rising into his now. Rising, and already beginning to make some noise.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, “I have to kiss that. I need that so much.” He was moving down her body, taking a thigh in each hand, moving her legs apart, and she was letting him. “Ah,” he sighed. “Oh, yeah.”

  He hadn’t taken off her underwear, she realized hazily. He was kissing her through it, and the sensation of his mouth through the lace, the delicate abrasion . . . it was almost too much.

  “Luke,” she moaned, her hands going to his hair, closing around it, pulling a little in her urgency. “Luke. Please.”