by Dean Atwood
Struggling to think clearly while being deluged by her emotions and touches, he pulled away long enough to say, “You said you wanted to know about my relationship with the lieutenant. I think we need to get that out into the open.”
She talked to him calmly between kisses on his lips, face, and neck. “Do you love her?”
“No, I don’t love her ... I like her a lot.”
“Do you find her attractive?’
“She’s a beautiful woman.”
“More beautiful than me?”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Is she a better lover than I am?”
It was impossible for him to answer such a question. There isn’t a uniform measurement for lovemaking. The lieutenant is a beautiful and exciting woman, but he couldn’t say with certainty whether she was better or worse in bed than Blaire, so he answered honestly, “No, she’s not a better lover.”
“Are you planning to be intimate with her again?”
“No, we’ve agreed to be good friends, only, from now on.”
“Then I forgive you,” she said and then added in a sexy, pleading voice, “Do you forgive me?”
When he didn’t answer, she unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hands beneath it, running her fingernails lightly up and down his back while guiding him backward to the spare bedroom. She gently pushed him onto the bed, lay on top of him, and kissed him repeatedly.
“Do you forgive me?” she asked again.
All of his mental prowess had disintegrated. He was defenseless.
“I forgive you,” he said.