Page 113 of Hold the Pickle
I draw in a deep breath.Home. “Yes. Please. Take me there.”
And I do meantake me.
38
DALTON
We stumble through the door of the apartment, kissing the entire way.
When Nadia looks around the place as if to assess it for changes, I scoop her up and walk her to the bed.
She lets out a “Whoop” as I toss her onto Optimus Prime.
Then I’m over her, braced on my arms, looking down at her face.
I’m still in shock over that first glimpse I got of her through the NICU window. Even though I knew she would be back after talking to Camryn, I didn’t expect to see her yet. She must have jumped in her car the moment she heard and drove straight to the hospital.
All the things I planned to do and say evaporated when we were breathing the same air. I need to touch her, to kiss her, to hang on.
And now that we’re here, back in our space, I don’t see how I can let her go again.
I press a long, lingering kiss on her mouth.
Her arms encircle my neck. The feel of her is a revelation, like I’ve arrived at true north. My hands won’t stay still, caressingher cheek, her neck, grazing the side of her breast. I can’t get enough.
The sweatshirt covers too much of her, so I lift the bottom and inch it up over her belly. Her skin is warm, and my fingers bump along her rib cage, my senses flooded with familiarity.
She breaks the kiss, breathing faster, her eyes on mine. I slip my hand beneath her bra, cupping the warm, soft breast. Her chest heaves as she sucks in a breath.
Slow. I’m going to take this so slow. I want none of this to end, and I will draw it all out as long as possible.
I move down her body to press my lips against the hollow beside her belly button. I make my way up, pushing the sweatshirt over her head.
As I reach the base of her bra, I reach behind her to unclasp the hooks.
She lets out a sigh as it releases. I tug it away.
Now she’s all mine to worship, touch, and taste. I hold both breasts, kneeling over her, my tongue sliding around one nipple, then the other.
Her back arches, and I grip more tightly, eliciting a moan.
It feels like forever since I’ve seen her like this, and yet it is as familiar as yesterday. I continue the slow, thorough exploration of her body, then move one hand to the waistband of her sweatpants.
She squirms beneath me, eager for me to move on. She seems to want more skin contact, because she tugs the shirt to my scrubs over my head.
The heat of our connection makes me rock hard, and it gets much harder to take things slow.
But I do, easing the sweatpants down her legs. They get stuck at her tennis shoes, but I pause a moment to untie them and toss them on the floor.
When her legs are bare, I work my way back up with excruciating patience, kissing the inside of her ankle, her calf, and the bump of her knee.
When I reach her thigh, she sucks in a breath. I hesitate inches from the edge of her panties, savoring the anticipation.
She wriggles again, needing me to move forward. And I oblige, slipping my fingers beneath the lace band to pull them down.
The scrap of satin falls to the floor without a sound. I grasp one of her knees and edge it aside. She’s naked before me, spread wide, resplendent in the low light.
I want to memorize every inch of her. But right now, I want to please her, to make her cry out in the night. I use both thumbs to open her wide, and when my tongue makes its first long lick, she lets out a keening cry.
