He grinned again. “I think it’s agreatidea. Here, sit up.”
She rolled until she was back sitting where she had been. Brad stood and offered his hand, so she took it.
Brad rolled his eyes. “Let’s review. We seem to have reached some kind of understanding. Our prior relationship ended not because I cheated, which I did not do, but because we never quite trusted each other. Lesson learned. Can we be friends?”
Could they? Lindsay was not at all certain they could, but she said, “Sure.”
“Cool. Now. You just jumped on me and then said you wanted to get me out of your system, which sure seems like an invitation to sex.”
She’d made a wrong turn somewhere. She’d been willing to talk, but… Brad was right. She wanted to have sex, too. Her memories of what it was like to be with him were overwhelming. There’d been men before and men since, and yet these memories had never faded.
“I won’t make you promise anything,” said Brad. “You want to get your rocks off and leave, I’m game. You want to talk about more than that happening? I’m game for that, too.”
She sighed. “I hate when you’re reasonable.”
“My bedroom is right here. The bed is far more comfortable and less lumpy than the couch.”
This could be just sex. Lindsay was mostly worried she’d want more after.
She let Brad lead her into the bedroom. The first thing he did once they stood at the foot of the bed was let go of her hand and whip off his shirt.
Lindsay wanted this. Brad was into it, too. This was familiar. She reached over and ran her hands over Brad’s bare chest. He definitely worked out more now than he had when they’d dated, and his chest was more defined than she remembered, but a lot of this was familiar, too. The breadth of his shoulders, the scar on his belly from a childhood injury, the sun tattoo on his pec. He’d gotten that tattoo when he was nineteen, she remembered, and it was a drunken mistake, but he liked the optimism it expressed. That was Brad, always looking on the bright side. He floated through life as if everything would work out.
Or he had when they’d dated, but that was five years ago. Had he changed since then? If so, how? Did they even still know each other the way they once had?
She didn’t want to think about that just now. This was about the physical.
He dipped his head and kissed her. This was familiar, too. It all flooded back to her now. This is how he tasted. She’d always loved that he was an aggressive kisser, that he opened his mouth before his lips even touched hers. She loved the feel of his big hands on her body, how warm they were, how they molded against her shapes and curves. Her skin came alive where he touched her, even under layers of clothing.
His fingers slipped under her shirt. She arched her back as his hands spread across the bare skin between her bra and the waistband of her jeans. Her heart rate accelerated in anticipation of where he might touch her next, and her breath caught in her throat. With practiced motion, he unhooked her bra and then slid his hands around to touch her front, and she bent up to meet his hands. It was like relief, in a way, to feel this again.
He knew just where to touch her, just how much pressure to exert, like he was reading her mind. She peeled off her shirt and bra and let Brad get an eyeful. He groaned and touched her again, then maneuvered her toward the bed.
His bedroom was small, really only with room enough for his big bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. His bed was made, but the bedding smelled like Brad. As he crawled onto the bed and hovered over her, she inhaled that scent again. He smelled sweet now, like cake frosting, but still had that undefinable Brad scent under that.
She reached for his fly. This she remembered, too. Brad had been a boxer-briefs type of guy and had nothing to be ashamed of underneath. His skin was hot where she touched him, and she was gratified when he let out a soft hiss. She undid the button on his jeans and let her fingers dance over the bulge there. He groaned. She smiled in satisfaction.
He pushed up and looked down at her with an eyebrow raised, like a dare. She returned the look. He grinned again and slid off her jeans and panties, dumping them and the ballet flats she’d been wearing on the floor. She watched him, touched his strong arms, felt heat flood her body. God, he was gorgeous. Maybe even more so now that he had a few more years on him. She started to ache with need between her legs.
She tried to convey that she wanted him to take off his pants without saying anything; she’d been able to do that with a look once upon a time.
He walked to the side of the bed—sauntered, really—his eyelids lowered but a smirk on his lips. He looked a little smug. Lindsay spread her legs. “You better hurry up. I might change my mind.”
“Nah.”
“You seem sure of yourself.”
He shucked his pants and underwear. He was already hard. “You’re naked. And now I am, too.”
“Look at that.”
He slid open the nightstand drawer and pulled out a condom, which he rolled on.
“So that’s it? We just get right to it?” she asked.
“I’m just getting prepared so that when I have you wet and begging for it, I don’t have to stop what I’m doing.”
Lindsay went flush everywhere. It took all of her composure to raise an eyebrow. “You say things.”
