“I didn’t know if you wanted to sleep with me tonight,” I ramble. “I wasn’t getting that vibe when you invited me here.”
He kisses me—hard, possessive, his hand engulfing my face as he does. “You feel that vibe now?” he asks, thick and low.
I gulp.
He smiles at me, that easy, gorgeous smile that warms every cell in my body.
He lowers his head and whispers, in my ear, “Good. Stay the night then.”
I shiver and face him. God help me. I really like him. Like, really like him. He’s kind to his grandmother, smart, hardworking, and a little too proud, but I like even that about him. He’s sweet to Milly, and the way a guy is with dogs tells you a lot about him. He’s also great in bed, and he got me tickets to Broadway. And let me dance for him, something I’ve always secretly fantasized my partner would like. I do want to stay. But I’m afraid of expecting too much, too fast, from a man who’s undergoing something as life-altering as a divorce.
“I can stay for sex. We should try to be real about this and about what you can offer until you’re free to decide if you want more, and then I’ll decide if I want more.”
For a second, Ian says nothing. But his gaze intensifies like a storm in the night.
For another second, he lowers his head and takes my mouth with his again. As if he’s had a little Sara Davies hangover himself.
He envelops me in his arms. The guy is hard all over: arms, chest, hands, jaw.
I feel so hot inside my palms are perspiring as Ian eases back and runs his eyes along my features, as if absorbing my reaction to his kiss.
And it was good.
His kisses are always so good.
I lick my lips, nervous, hungry.
Damn him, I already miss his taste on my tongue. His lips on my lips.
“Don’t look so impatient. I’m barely getting started with you.” He smiles down at me, and my stomach flips warmly as he scoops me up. “I know why you’re waffling on me, Sara.” He’s carrying me to the mattress. And the whole world is spinning and I don’t ever want him to set me down. “You’re scared, and that’s all right. I didn’t expect this either. Not now. Not anytime in the future. I’m scared of the same things you are. Are you planning to hurt me?”
“No,” I gasp. “Of course not,” I say as he sets me down on the bed.
“Good. I’m not planning to hurt you, either.”
He pulls back, nostrils flaring, eyes hot as he secures my chin and tips my head back. “I know I’m in the middle of a divorce, and I know that’s not fair to you. I’ll be patient, Sara.”
I’m so surprised by this admission, I feel myself gape. “I… thank you.” I sit up in bed, licking my lips and tasting him on them. “But I don’t know if it’s worse that you take your time.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s confusing me.”
He laughs, then sobers up and studies me. “You’re confused because you’re drunk, baby.”
I shake my head, but he settles beside me and presses me back against his chest and holds me against his heartbeat, one hand on the back of my head, cradling me. “No. I’m confused because I don’t know what you want from me,” I say.
“The same thing you do, Sara.”
“What is that? It’d be nice if you told me because I have no idea,” I say, shaking my head and feeling a little dizzy again. He chuckles softly and raises himself from the bed. I groan as he leaves but feel swamped with relief when he comes back with a protein bar and a bottle of water for me.
“It’s all I’ve got for now.”
“I’m not hungry for that. I’m hungry for you, motherfucker.”
He sets it aside and gets back in bed, pulling me against him with a chuckle that rumbles deeply up his chest.
“Cordelia and I haven’t been together for a year and a half. It’s over. I have a right to start over, don’t I, baby?” he croons in my ear, tipping my head back so our eyes meet again.
“Yes.” Of course he does. Everyone does. Especially after what he’s been through. “You do, Ian, you so do.”
“Good you agree. Because you’re the only thing that’s made me want to start over—from the very beginning.”
“Really?” I gasp, disbelieving.
Ian smiles silently, a toe-curling warmth appearing in his eyes as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Ahh, Sara,” he part murmurs, part groans. “Looks like we’ll only be sleeping tonight, baby. Only because you’re drunk—and I do want you with all five senses when I’m inside you again.”
Gulp.
That sounds like a promise.
A very exciting promise.
I relax in his arms and shift on the mattress with all my clothes on. We have no blankets, just his arms around me and my arms greedily around his waist.
He whispers in my ear, “First thing I’m getting tomorrow is sheets, satin ones. You deserve to get fucked on the best, don’t you, peanut?”
“I’m going to let you dream about it, but that’s no guarantee that I’m coming back soon except for more of that wine.” I feign hard-to-get-ness simply because if things end up working out with this guy, which would be a miracle (but hey, I’m trying to believe), then I want to have a story to tell our kids where I’m not a complete slut in it.
His chuckle rumbles under my ear. “I’m still getting the sheets.”
I nod and press a little closer because he feels better than any sheet, and who would have thought I’d ever get to curl up with my Suit like this? He looks so handsome I could eat him up and lick the whole damn spoon.
“Good night, Sara.”
I stop smiling and force myself to stop the room from spinning, grabbing onto him as an anchor. “Good night, Ian.” My voice softens, and then suddenly for a tiny moment, I want to cry. I’ve always been such a sad drunk, all emotional and whiney.
Right now I don’t want to whine, though. I feel… grateful. I don’t know if it’s to him, for making me feel so alive, so hot, and so interesting, or to the universe, for giving me hope that maybe love will find a way, after all.
Not that I love him. No. Hey, I barely know the guy.
But there’s an odd little tug in my heart whenever I’m close to him, and I’m excited to figure out what it’s all about.
FLESH AND BLOOD
Sara
I wake up disconcerted for a second until I peer through my eyelids to see him. He’s still in his suit. His lashes rest against his cheekbones. His arm is around me as I spoon his side. This is really nice, I realize. I should go home, but I don’t want to. I want this guy, even though there’s a dull thudding in my head. I can’t believe a guy who’s real flesh and blood—not an image on a movie screen, or in a magazine or book—can make me want like this.
I hear him shift and turn his face to rest his chin on the top of my head. He inhales and exhales with a soft groan before easing his arm out from under me and stepping into the bathroom.
I hear the soft close of the bathroom door and the sound of the shower turn on.
I smile perversely knowing he’s probably taking care of himself in there, or at least turning the faucet to cold. He was hard against my stomach most of the night and I delighted in pushing closer to him. I love that he wants me like this.
I drift in and out of sleep, and the next time my eyes pop open he is standing before me, in all his damp glory, his chest glistening wet, his dark hair slicked back, and a towel around his hips. My perverse smile fades. Now the joke’s on me. I ache all over, from my breasts to way down between my legs. My heart a little bit, too.
He kisses me—hard, possessive, his hand engulfing my face as he does. “You feel that vibe now?” he asks, thick and low.
I gulp.
He smiles at me, that easy, gorgeous smile that warms every cell in my body.
He lowers his head and whispers, in my ear, “Good. Stay the night then.”
I shiver and face him. God help me. I really like him. Like, really like him. He’s kind to his grandmother, smart, hardworking, and a little too proud, but I like even that about him. He’s sweet to Milly, and the way a guy is with dogs tells you a lot about him. He’s also great in bed, and he got me tickets to Broadway. And let me dance for him, something I’ve always secretly fantasized my partner would like. I do want to stay. But I’m afraid of expecting too much, too fast, from a man who’s undergoing something as life-altering as a divorce.
“I can stay for sex. We should try to be real about this and about what you can offer until you’re free to decide if you want more, and then I’ll decide if I want more.”
For a second, Ian says nothing. But his gaze intensifies like a storm in the night.
For another second, he lowers his head and takes my mouth with his again. As if he’s had a little Sara Davies hangover himself.
He envelops me in his arms. The guy is hard all over: arms, chest, hands, jaw.
I feel so hot inside my palms are perspiring as Ian eases back and runs his eyes along my features, as if absorbing my reaction to his kiss.
And it was good.
His kisses are always so good.
I lick my lips, nervous, hungry.
Damn him, I already miss his taste on my tongue. His lips on my lips.
“Don’t look so impatient. I’m barely getting started with you.” He smiles down at me, and my stomach flips warmly as he scoops me up. “I know why you’re waffling on me, Sara.” He’s carrying me to the mattress. And the whole world is spinning and I don’t ever want him to set me down. “You’re scared, and that’s all right. I didn’t expect this either. Not now. Not anytime in the future. I’m scared of the same things you are. Are you planning to hurt me?”
“No,” I gasp. “Of course not,” I say as he sets me down on the bed.
“Good. I’m not planning to hurt you, either.”
He pulls back, nostrils flaring, eyes hot as he secures my chin and tips my head back. “I know I’m in the middle of a divorce, and I know that’s not fair to you. I’ll be patient, Sara.”
I’m so surprised by this admission, I feel myself gape. “I… thank you.” I sit up in bed, licking my lips and tasting him on them. “But I don’t know if it’s worse that you take your time.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s confusing me.”
He laughs, then sobers up and studies me. “You’re confused because you’re drunk, baby.”
I shake my head, but he settles beside me and presses me back against his chest and holds me against his heartbeat, one hand on the back of my head, cradling me. “No. I’m confused because I don’t know what you want from me,” I say.
“The same thing you do, Sara.”
“What is that? It’d be nice if you told me because I have no idea,” I say, shaking my head and feeling a little dizzy again. He chuckles softly and raises himself from the bed. I groan as he leaves but feel swamped with relief when he comes back with a protein bar and a bottle of water for me.
“It’s all I’ve got for now.”
“I’m not hungry for that. I’m hungry for you, motherfucker.”
He sets it aside and gets back in bed, pulling me against him with a chuckle that rumbles deeply up his chest.
“Cordelia and I haven’t been together for a year and a half. It’s over. I have a right to start over, don’t I, baby?” he croons in my ear, tipping my head back so our eyes meet again.
“Yes.” Of course he does. Everyone does. Especially after what he’s been through. “You do, Ian, you so do.”
“Good you agree. Because you’re the only thing that’s made me want to start over—from the very beginning.”
“Really?” I gasp, disbelieving.
Ian smiles silently, a toe-curling warmth appearing in his eyes as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Ahh, Sara,” he part murmurs, part groans. “Looks like we’ll only be sleeping tonight, baby. Only because you’re drunk—and I do want you with all five senses when I’m inside you again.”
Gulp.
That sounds like a promise.
A very exciting promise.
I relax in his arms and shift on the mattress with all my clothes on. We have no blankets, just his arms around me and my arms greedily around his waist.
He whispers in my ear, “First thing I’m getting tomorrow is sheets, satin ones. You deserve to get fucked on the best, don’t you, peanut?”
“I’m going to let you dream about it, but that’s no guarantee that I’m coming back soon except for more of that wine.” I feign hard-to-get-ness simply because if things end up working out with this guy, which would be a miracle (but hey, I’m trying to believe), then I want to have a story to tell our kids where I’m not a complete slut in it.
His chuckle rumbles under my ear. “I’m still getting the sheets.”
I nod and press a little closer because he feels better than any sheet, and who would have thought I’d ever get to curl up with my Suit like this? He looks so handsome I could eat him up and lick the whole damn spoon.
“Good night, Sara.”
I stop smiling and force myself to stop the room from spinning, grabbing onto him as an anchor. “Good night, Ian.” My voice softens, and then suddenly for a tiny moment, I want to cry. I’ve always been such a sad drunk, all emotional and whiney.
Right now I don’t want to whine, though. I feel… grateful. I don’t know if it’s to him, for making me feel so alive, so hot, and so interesting, or to the universe, for giving me hope that maybe love will find a way, after all.
Not that I love him. No. Hey, I barely know the guy.
But there’s an odd little tug in my heart whenever I’m close to him, and I’m excited to figure out what it’s all about.
FLESH AND BLOOD
Sara
I wake up disconcerted for a second until I peer through my eyelids to see him. He’s still in his suit. His lashes rest against his cheekbones. His arm is around me as I spoon his side. This is really nice, I realize. I should go home, but I don’t want to. I want this guy, even though there’s a dull thudding in my head. I can’t believe a guy who’s real flesh and blood—not an image on a movie screen, or in a magazine or book—can make me want like this.
I hear him shift and turn his face to rest his chin on the top of my head. He inhales and exhales with a soft groan before easing his arm out from under me and stepping into the bathroom.
I hear the soft close of the bathroom door and the sound of the shower turn on.
I smile perversely knowing he’s probably taking care of himself in there, or at least turning the faucet to cold. He was hard against my stomach most of the night and I delighted in pushing closer to him. I love that he wants me like this.
I drift in and out of sleep, and the next time my eyes pop open he is standing before me, in all his damp glory, his chest glistening wet, his dark hair slicked back, and a towel around his hips. My perverse smile fades. Now the joke’s on me. I ache all over, from my breasts to way down between my legs. My heart a little bit, too.
