his, had always known, as if there was some magical, absolute affinity between them, as man and woman, as if the attraction—the need—was bred in the bone.
When at last he lifted his head, he waited for her to open her eyes, for her long, sooty lashes to rise. She stared up at him, dazed, red lips wet from their kisses.
He knew he could have her, right then and there. He ached to have her, to peel off that loose cotton shirt and those tight jeans. To take away everything, all the barriers between them. To see her naked. To touch her all over.
To take her here, in the kitchen, on the table. Or up against the ancient yellow refrigerator. To lead her into her bedroom, lay her tenderly down on the pillows and bury himself deep in her softness. To kiss her all over, to bring her to climax once and then again. And again. Until she begged him to stop—and then pulled him close and demanded he do that some more.
More. Yes. For their first time, he wanted more than just tonight.
“Come away with me,” he whispered. “Give us some time, together.”
She ran a finger along the crew neck of the shirt he wore. He felt her touch like a brand. And she asked, “Isn’t that what this is now, tonight? Time, together?”
“I want more. All night. And the morning after. I don’t want to be interrupted by daylight. I don’t want to have to sneak off before dawn.”
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