He began a slow, deep rhythm, his gaze locked on her face, her eyes.
“You feel so good. So hot and tight. Makes being in you like this totally torture, but the best kind. It feels so amazing it’s almost too much.”
It wasn’t enough. Just not quite enough. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and it adjusted her angle, getting him in deeper. That was enough.
It was even better when she noted the sweat on his forehead and the strain in his muscles. He was getting closer. She tightened herself around him, making him gasp, and she did it again a few more times for good measure.
He whispered in her ear. “Make yourself come around me.”
Now that was wanton.
She slid her hand between them, her gaze still locked with his. She’d never in her whole life done this in front of anyone else! But she wasn’t embarrassed, especially when he groaned once her fingers found her clit and began to circle it.
He hissed. “So good, so good ...”
She wasn’t long this way and when she hit her peak, he groaned her name, following her into climax.
Cope came back to her bed after cleaning up and smiled when he noted she’d crawled under her blankets. He’d never had such desire for anyone or anything in his whole life. He wanted her. Wanted her right then, tomorrow and the day after.
He burrowed under the bedding, sliding his body along hers and sighing contentedly when she snuggled into him.
“That was pretty awesome, Ella Tipton.”
“Thank you. The feeling is totally mutual, Andrew Copeland.” She yawned, and he toyed with her hair. “Will you stay?”
Nothing and no one could tear him away. Warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets stole through his insides at the shy yet offhand way she’d asked. How far they’d come in the time since he’d decided to finally make his move on her. “Perfect. Now I don’t have to move for hours and hours. I don’t have a damned thing to do until about nine.”
She snorted. “Lucky you. You may change your mind about staying when I tell you I have to be up at six thirty so I can be out of here by seven thirty at the latest. I have an appointment at just after eight.”
“Sounds like I’m on coffee duty tomorrow then.”
She smiled, her eyes drifting closed. “Sounds like heaven.”
15
When she checked her mailbox on Friday afternoon, it was stuffed with a fat manila envelope. Brow furrowed, she worried until she saw the return address and last name in the upper left corner. Cope.
Once inside her apartment, she opened the envelope and treasure after treasure slid from it.
Leaves pressed between wax paper.
An antique postcard from the Seattle World’s Fair. To someone’s Aunt Rose, from Josie. The handwriting was that of a young girl, enamored of the city, of the press and flow of traffic and people.
Three packets of tea, all described in some other language, the furls and pitch of which she was unfamiliar with. One was perfectly square and covered with a sort of parchment. The ink was deep purple. One deep sniff, and smoke met her nose. Spice and smoke. She’d have this one first.
He’d torn a page from a magazine. A feature on best breakfast places to go in Seattle. He’d written in Sharpie at the bottom: “We need to have waffles after a long walk in the morning mist. Then I can take you back to bed.”
Wow.
And then a small square of paper. Turning it over revealed a pen-and-ink drawing of a woman’s neck, collarbone and the upper curve of her br**sts. From the freckles so accurately placed, he’d drawn her body.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away for the longest time. It was stunning. Simple. Elegant and sensual. All things she never considered herself. But there it was. Through his eyes, she was all those things.
The sketch was most likely the finest compliment she’d ever received.
At last the folded sheaf of paper. She held it, drawing out the unexpected pleasure he’d given her. The weight of the paper was substantial. It pleased her to think he’d chosen it specially for her. He may have kept a sheaf of writing paper for general reasons, but she preferred to think he’d done it for her.
Unfolding it, she realized what beautiful handwriting he had. Each new thing she discovered about him only made her like him more. She had no idea he was such a talented artist with pen and ink as well as wood. Who knew he’d have a fountain pen with ink the shade of a bright summer sky? Andrew Copeland was one complicated man. Something confirmed as she read his words.
The tea is to take you away from your desk, from your dreary day and off, far away. Warm breezes, time to simply drink and enjoy the sights, sounds and scents of the world. When you come to me here at my house, we can share a pot as we laze about on a cold and rainy evening.
The sketch isn’t nearly as good as it could be, as strong as my memory of that part of you I love so much. The long line of your neck, your skin so pale and perfect. And like a surprise, freckles spattered here and there with artful chaos.
I saw the postcard in a bin at an antique store in Marysville. I’ve been saving it, not knowing you needed it until after I slid the leaves into the envelope.
Upon night’s breast, I fly to you each time I close my eyes . . .
Andrew
Whoo. She fanned herself a moment, trying to keep her bearings, when in reality, he’d shaken her. Her defenses against him crumbled. No one got to her the way he did.
She sat, the sky outside darkening, and realized her feelings for Andrew Copeland were beyond her ability to control.
“You feel so good. So hot and tight. Makes being in you like this totally torture, but the best kind. It feels so amazing it’s almost too much.”
It wasn’t enough. Just not quite enough. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and it adjusted her angle, getting him in deeper. That was enough.
It was even better when she noted the sweat on his forehead and the strain in his muscles. He was getting closer. She tightened herself around him, making him gasp, and she did it again a few more times for good measure.
He whispered in her ear. “Make yourself come around me.”
Now that was wanton.
She slid her hand between them, her gaze still locked with his. She’d never in her whole life done this in front of anyone else! But she wasn’t embarrassed, especially when he groaned once her fingers found her clit and began to circle it.
He hissed. “So good, so good ...”
She wasn’t long this way and when she hit her peak, he groaned her name, following her into climax.
Cope came back to her bed after cleaning up and smiled when he noted she’d crawled under her blankets. He’d never had such desire for anyone or anything in his whole life. He wanted her. Wanted her right then, tomorrow and the day after.
He burrowed under the bedding, sliding his body along hers and sighing contentedly when she snuggled into him.
“That was pretty awesome, Ella Tipton.”
“Thank you. The feeling is totally mutual, Andrew Copeland.” She yawned, and he toyed with her hair. “Will you stay?”
Nothing and no one could tear him away. Warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets stole through his insides at the shy yet offhand way she’d asked. How far they’d come in the time since he’d decided to finally make his move on her. “Perfect. Now I don’t have to move for hours and hours. I don’t have a damned thing to do until about nine.”
She snorted. “Lucky you. You may change your mind about staying when I tell you I have to be up at six thirty so I can be out of here by seven thirty at the latest. I have an appointment at just after eight.”
“Sounds like I’m on coffee duty tomorrow then.”
She smiled, her eyes drifting closed. “Sounds like heaven.”
15
When she checked her mailbox on Friday afternoon, it was stuffed with a fat manila envelope. Brow furrowed, she worried until she saw the return address and last name in the upper left corner. Cope.
Once inside her apartment, she opened the envelope and treasure after treasure slid from it.
Leaves pressed between wax paper.
An antique postcard from the Seattle World’s Fair. To someone’s Aunt Rose, from Josie. The handwriting was that of a young girl, enamored of the city, of the press and flow of traffic and people.
Three packets of tea, all described in some other language, the furls and pitch of which she was unfamiliar with. One was perfectly square and covered with a sort of parchment. The ink was deep purple. One deep sniff, and smoke met her nose. Spice and smoke. She’d have this one first.
He’d torn a page from a magazine. A feature on best breakfast places to go in Seattle. He’d written in Sharpie at the bottom: “We need to have waffles after a long walk in the morning mist. Then I can take you back to bed.”
Wow.
And then a small square of paper. Turning it over revealed a pen-and-ink drawing of a woman’s neck, collarbone and the upper curve of her br**sts. From the freckles so accurately placed, he’d drawn her body.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away for the longest time. It was stunning. Simple. Elegant and sensual. All things she never considered herself. But there it was. Through his eyes, she was all those things.
The sketch was most likely the finest compliment she’d ever received.
At last the folded sheaf of paper. She held it, drawing out the unexpected pleasure he’d given her. The weight of the paper was substantial. It pleased her to think he’d chosen it specially for her. He may have kept a sheaf of writing paper for general reasons, but she preferred to think he’d done it for her.
Unfolding it, she realized what beautiful handwriting he had. Each new thing she discovered about him only made her like him more. She had no idea he was such a talented artist with pen and ink as well as wood. Who knew he’d have a fountain pen with ink the shade of a bright summer sky? Andrew Copeland was one complicated man. Something confirmed as she read his words.
The tea is to take you away from your desk, from your dreary day and off, far away. Warm breezes, time to simply drink and enjoy the sights, sounds and scents of the world. When you come to me here at my house, we can share a pot as we laze about on a cold and rainy evening.
The sketch isn’t nearly as good as it could be, as strong as my memory of that part of you I love so much. The long line of your neck, your skin so pale and perfect. And like a surprise, freckles spattered here and there with artful chaos.
I saw the postcard in a bin at an antique store in Marysville. I’ve been saving it, not knowing you needed it until after I slid the leaves into the envelope.
Upon night’s breast, I fly to you each time I close my eyes . . .
Andrew
Whoo. She fanned herself a moment, trying to keep her bearings, when in reality, he’d shaken her. Her defenses against him crumbled. No one got to her the way he did.
She sat, the sky outside darkening, and realized her feelings for Andrew Copeland were beyond her ability to control.
