And once again, I lean in as slowly as I can. My eyes are open, hers are, too. Her eyes are wide and brown and scared, and I wish I knew what this girl has been through to put such fear in her eyes, what she’s endured that has such high, thick walls between herself and the rest of the world. I want to know what’s behind those walls, but I’m not sure how to get past them without spooking her.
So I kiss her. Gently, slowly. Just lips, at first.
And this time, she melts. Not all at once, like butter in a microwave, but like a chunk of ice in a cool, shadowy pond: slowly, gradually. She leans into me, a shoulder touching mine, her breasts squishing against my chest, and then her hand is on my shoulder and stealing up to my chin, then to my neck and she cups my skin beneath the hairline and she’s not breathing and neither am I. I circle my arm behind her back and hold her close, and she twists in the booth so she can press closer, and our mouths move, seek, claim. Her tongue slips out first this time, touches my lip, my teeth, and then I’m tasting her tongue and she’s sighing into my mouth.
I remove my lips from hers and maybe it’s my imagination, but it sounded like she made a little moan at the loss of the kiss.
“Des…” I breathe her name, a single syllable whispering between our mouths. “Come to my room with me.”
I stand up, toss back the last of my drink, and then hold my hand out to her. She stares up at me, and I can see thoughts whirling in her eyes, see desire warring with doubt. Or fear. Or whatever it is that is holding her back. After a long moment, she stands up, taking my hand. We start forward, and then she stops, turns back, and downs her drink. She sets the empty beer bottle down a little hard, with a sigh as she swallows the beer.
“Kiss me again,” she says, leaning into me.
I don’t need to be asked twice. I pull her to my chest, press my palm to her lower back and cradle her cheek with my other hand. She delves into my mouth with that sweet, strong tongue of hers, and her hands curl at my chest, fingertips digging into the material of my jacket.
I’m hungry for her, my hands desperate to slip lower, to drag that sexy fucking dress off and reveal her curves and her skin, needing her mouth on my skin, her flesh under my lips, her essence on my tongue. I can’t stay here with her either. I need her alone. I’m hard, aching, throbbing.
I break the kiss with a low, almost inaudible growl and lead her by the hand down the steps to the green-on-green hallway to my room. I’m so consumed by the need to resume the kiss that I fumble with the key. I finally get the door open, and I don’t even notice the gaudy purple explosion in the sitting room, or the bizarrely archaic headboard and canopy of the bed.
All I see is Des, her bright expressive eyes, and her hands, and the fall of black hair around her shoulders. She stops, her back to the door, hands flat against the surface at her hips, arms slightly bent, just her ass, hands, and shoulder blades touching the door. It’s a stance of readiness, preparation for flight, for battle. Her eyes shine, fixed on me. Her lips are slightly parted, her chin tilted slightly upward.
I stand three feet away, and she’s just staring at me, me at her. And then I move. I take a step toward her, and I tug at my bow tie, tossing it aside. I shrug out of my jacket. Unbutton the cuffs of my shirt. I finish unbuttoning my shirt and shrug out of it, my torso clad in a skin-tight white T-shirt. The slim shiny black dress belt is next, tossed aside. Shoes, kicked off. Socks, toed off.
Her nostrils flare, her eyes go wider, if that’s even possible, and her chest heaves as she sucks in a deep breath.
“Des,” I say. “It’s okay.”
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t do anything, and just holds her about-to-bolt pose, her eyes following my every motion. She hasn’t moved, and is barely breathing.
I close the space between us, stopping just shy of pressing our bodies together. I just look at her, for a moment, assessing the turmoil in her eyes. She wants me, her eyes roaming my arms and chest and face tell me that. The swell of her chest with each breath tells me that; it also tells me she’s nervous, or scared, or something.
Why, I don’t know, and I’m not going to ask. I just have to be attentive to her mood, to how she responds to me.
I descend to my knees slowly, and her eyes follow me, but her head doesn’t tip down. Her mouth falls open a bit wider, and then a breath leaves her in a whoosh as I palm her knee just beneath where the hem of her dress ends on one side. I curl my fingers around the back of her knee; slide my hand down the plump musculature of her calf. Her breath hitches. I wrap my hand around her ankle, lift her foot, and slide the shoe off. She goes down flat-footed, and I slip my fingers between her legs, under the slinky fabric of her dress, to the back of her other leg. I caress her kneecap, around to the back, feather my fingers across the crease, down over the curve of her calf, and lift her foot, remove her other shoe.
I stand up, dragging both hands up the backs of her legs, lifting the hem of her dress as I rise. When I’m at my full height, her dress is bunched at mid-thigh and she’s breathing deep and fast. I lean in, press my nose to the side of her throat and inhale, slipping my palms around her thighs.
“Adam…” she breathes.
I move one hand into her hair, bury my fingers in the thick shimmery cool weight, and bring my mouth to hers, my other hand moving of its own volition up and up and up to the firm globe of her butt. She breathes into my mouth, and then her teeth click against mine as she closes in suddenly and ravenously for the kiss. Her hands lift, press flat against my chest, and her tongue seeks mine, and I pull her flush against me. She feels my erection, I know she does; there’s no way she can miss it. It’s a hot iron rod between us, straining against my boxer-briefs and the fly of my tuxedo slacks.
She breaks free from the kiss, and her head thunks against the wood of the door.
“Des? Do you want to go?” I let her dress go, move my hand from the bare smooth hot flesh of her ass out to rest on her hip over the fabric. “I don’t want you to be scared. Or do anything you don’t want to do.”
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispers.
“But you seem like you’re about to freak out.”
“I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Like what?” I tug her hair gently so she has to look at me.
“This. You and me. I barely know you. I just met you. This is crazy.” Her hands rest on my chest, her eyes seek mine. “This isn’t what I do.”