A Time To Give. Kathryn Shay
He grinned and tucked her tousled hair behind her ear. “Really. Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
She smiled Jezebel’s smile and shifted on his lap. “Hmm. Some idea.”
“We have to stop,” he repeated.
“No.” The word was forceful, reminding him she could be a tough cookie when needed. He’d witnessed it at the soup kitchen. “Come home with me, Ben. Make love to me there.”
His jaw dropped open. He started to object, but months of loneliness silenced him. She was offering him a night’s respite from everything that had happened in the past two years.
FOR THE ELEVEN MONTHS he’d been frequenting the soup kitchen, Ben had tried hard to keep from getting to this place. Emotionally and physically. Emily’s bedroom was painted a pale peach and filled with finely crafted oak furniture. Impressionist prints decorated the walls and a thick peach-and-blue flowered rug covered most of the plank-wood floor. As Ben waited for Emily to come out of the bathroom, he sank onto her queen-size bed.
Problem was, it felt natural. It felt right to be here. Still, if he was a truly good man, he’d get up and leave before she came out of the bathroom. But he wasn’t going to do that because he was no longer the man he used to be. Lammon Mackenzie had seen to that. Instead, Ben unbuttoned his shirt, slid it and his T-shirt off and removed his boots and socks. He’d just gotten the snap of his jeans undone when the bathroom door opened.
Moonlight streamed into the bedroom through slatted blinds, catching Emily in its silvery net. She’d switched on a dresser lamp, and her hair shimmered in the light. Moved by her ethereal beauty, he swallowed hard and stood. Only inches away, she waited. She’d put on a sea-green little slip of a thing with barely there straps. He leaned down and kissed a strap. Her skin was so silky it made his body snap from hungry to voracious. He fisted his hands to gain control.
She didn’t help—running her fingers up his chest, licking his nipples. He manacled her wrists to stop her. Instead of devouring her, he planned to taste, to relish, to enjoy with epicurean delight, but his body was thrumming with need and he had to pace himself. When she raised her head, her eyes were wide and luminous.
“Do you have any idea how much I want this?” he whispered softly.
A blush crept up from the scoop of the silk to her neck. “I do, too.”
“You are so lovely.” His fingers slid from her shoulder to elbow, raising her gooseflesh.
“I want to be, for you.”
He lowered his head, starved for this kind of contact, for her. Pushing aside the strap, tugging on the top of the gown, he exposed a generous swell of her breast. Then a nipple. He closed his mouth over it. She started before letting out a soft moan. He suckled, fed on her body, let it nourish his soul. Soon though, he became greedy. Less gently, he pulled off the other strap, gave a yank so that she stood there naked, bathed in soft light like a Degas painting.
He forced himself to go slowly, to savor the experience. To that end, he brushed his lips down her throat, over her chest. Kneeling, he tantalized the silken skin of her abdomen. He felt her shiver, tremble with desire, so he linked his hands with hers and continued his slow exploration of the most beautiful female body he’d ever seen.
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