Through force of will, I kept myself from acting on those feelings, and hopefully hid them from him while I tried to sort out what the hell was going on inside me.
He took care of me, the bastard. Rescued me from my dead bus. Towed it. Brought me here. Says he's going to help me get it fixed. Held me without a word as I had the emotional breakdown I'd been denying myself since my husband died. Asked for nothing. He just wanted to help. Showed me kindness after kindness, and when his own desires and attraction to me cropped up, he left the situation rather than let it affect me.
And when I saw him outside on his deck, I was…god, I don't know.
Half asleep and emotionally depleted. Maybe, for the first time since Dutchie's death, I was free of the weight of my long-pent grief. I don't know. I just that I saw him there lounging in dark blue Adirondack chair in the shape of Michigan’s lower peninsula, and I was totally fucking gone for him.
Need was a savage mistress within me, raging and pounding on the bars of the cage I'd kept her in for so long.
And when he kissed me?
Fuck.
The man cankiss.
And again, rather than allow his needs to take over, Felix had fled. The instinct was both sweet and frustrating. Because my needs are complex. I don't just want to be touched. I don't just want to be kissed, held, caressed, and given orgasms. I want all that—need it. But just as much as I want to receive them, I want togivethose things. I want to touch. I want to kiss. I want to lick. I want to taste. I want to give him an orgasm that makes him forget his own name.
Which is where I am right now: laying sideways on his bed, naked from the waist up, shaking with orgasm aftershocks—from an orgasm he gave me exclusively through nipple-play.
I came close to it a few times with Dutchie, but never truly got there.
I don't dare examine that particular thought too closely—my emotions are still locked up at the moment, rampaging behind a very thin shield. My guilt over enjoying this will burst through sooner or later—probably sooner. I'll be a fucking disaster, and it'll likely happen pretty explosively.
But for now, I'm determined to force myself to enjoy this moment of quasi-normality. Feeling pretty. Feeling female. Feeling wanted.
Being touched.
Held.
Kissed.
It's fucking amazing. Like droplets of water dripped onto a cracked, parched tongue. But like someone dying of thirst, I dare not drink too deeply all at once.
That's the idea, at least.
Desire has other plans.
Felix is half-kneeling on the bed above me, one foot on the floor, the other knee bent and braced into the mattress while I lay with my torso and ass on the bed, feet dangling just above the floor…since I'm too damn short to touch.
His eyes are ice chips, palest blue and glittering, shockingly intense, piercing and heated. His eyes are on mine, searching me—for signs of upset, probably. He must know I'm on the verge, and he's being so careful not to push me.
It only makes me want him all the more.
It makes my belly burn, my core heat. My nipples harden and my skin tingles.
I crave his touch. His skin. His muscles. His hands.
"Kiss me," I breathe. "Kiss me and don't stop."
The words are not mine. They didn't come from my mind or my heart, but somewhere else. My soul? From my very core—from my pussy. My aching nipples. My pulsing sex.
"Fuckingkissme, Felix."
His tongue darts out and slides along his lower lip, and I lift swiftly, knot my fingers in the shaggy hair at the back of his head and kiss him.
And oh, oh god, the man can fucking kiss. Have I mentioned that, yet? His lips are pillowy soft in contrast to the masculine hardness of his body everywhere else. Wet and warm and soft, they scour mine with relentless verve, and his tongue is nimble and slippery and insistent.
I groan into the kiss, and I feel him tense at the sound, feel his hands twitch on my tits, squeezing involuntarily—drawing a gasp from me.
