And that’s when it hit him, the difference. Not that he’d made love to her in that kitchen. That had been all about sex, about slaking needs and taking and pleasuring. But, right now, watching her, thinking about that vulnerable part, the part that had taken a good long time to get to where she could let her defenses down with him completely, the way she obviously wanted to. Yes, he was thinking about that part, all tangled up with the way she’d followed his request to leave the rest of him out of the equation and just take him as she got to know him…he had a lot of respect for that. Especially given her self-proclaimed curious bent.
But it was that first part, the vulnerable part, that had kept her talking for a lot longer than most women would have, given his ready state and the fact that he had all but pushed her up against the wall in his desire to have her. He’d wanted to take her, to have her, to slake needs, his…and hers. And they’d done all that, and more.
So, it was curious now, not that he wanted her again, but that the needs behind it were different. He wanted to…what? Romance her? That wasn’t really it. And he didn’t know her well enough to call it lovemaking. That felt like something that required at least reaching some deeper level of affection. And it wasn’t that he felt sorry for her, for what the last person she’d trusted with her heart, her body, had done to her. He hated that, to be sure, but that wasn’t why his heart felt all kind of wobbly and weak when he looked at her.
He merely knew he wanted to give her pleasure, and take care of her in a way that wasn’t just about slaking needs and having mind-blowing sex. He wanted to give her…more. Get her off that wobbly, vulnerable edge, at least where this was concerned. Bring that other part he knew of her, the direct, confident part, to this. All of this.
He was reaching for her without really knowing what in the hell he was actually thinking, or even wanting. Maybe this wasn’t about her at all, or that sad look he’d seen in her eyes, or the way she’d had to talk herself into having sex she obviously wanted. Maybe this was about him. He wasn’t sure he really cared. And he knew he was tired, damn tired, of thinking about every last thing. He just wanted to feel. To do what felt natural, what felt right, and to hell with everything else.
Because, for once, maybe for the first time ever, there was nothing else.
He took her shoulders, gently, in his hands, and she didn’t jump, so she’d been aware he was standing behind her all this time. But she hadn’t turned, hadn’t looked at him. He turned her to him, into him, into his arms. It was a confined space, a small circle of curtain surrounding them, filled with steam and the spray of hot water. He tipped her mouth up to his and took it slowly, in a deep, searching kiss. It wasn’t about demanding or claiming, or anything even carnal, really. It was just about connecting, joining, feeling. His eyes had drifted shut, so it took him a second, or maybe two with the water cascading down over them, for him to taste the saltiness on her wet lips.
He paused, opened his eyes, and blinked away the water to see that there were tears on her cheeks. Confounded, he didn’t know what to say, or do for that matter. But then she was weaving her fingers into the hair at his neck, urging his mouth back down to hers. And he knew he should be concerned, should worry that whatever this was for him might be construed differently by her. But her mouth was on his, seeking, tasting, feeling. And it was exactly what he wanted.
So he kissed her back, pulled her more fully into his arms, and kissed her until the salty tang went away. She was slick and lithe and perfect in his arms. Her fingers dug into his scalp, and their kisses became deeper, longer, if not more urgent. His body recharged slowly, and grew achingly, fully to life. She moved against him, trapping the length of him between her belly and his. He thought, briefly, about the scratches, but when he tried to shift back, she dug her fingertips in deeper and urged him to stay where he was by sliding her tongue more deeply into his mouth.
This was what he wanted. Her, all of her, the parts that were direct, the parts that were a bit needy, all wrapped up into this. Into him. Eventually he shifted and reached for the soap that hung from a rack hooked to the overhead spray. He squeezed some in his hand and began stroking the lather into her skin. The tight quarters prevented him from moving too far down, much less crouching, but what he could reach he took his time with. She was making small whimpers, deeper moans, when he slid his hands between her legs. He pulled her back against his chest and soaped her breasts with one hand, while bringing her to a slow, shaking climax with the other.
She tipped her head back on his shoulder as her body continued to quake and shudder. He leaned down to kiss her throat, but she turned, captured his mouth…then squeezed soap into her own hands.
Never in his life had he felt anything like this. Her hands were warm, slippery, foamy, searching, sliding…stroking. She moved in against him, used her shorter, smaller stature to tease his nipples with her teeth, her tongue, while sliding her hands around his hips, sinking her fingers into the rounded cheeks, careful not to stroke his back, even while trapping the throbbing length of him between them.
He groaned, long and loudly, tipping his face up to the spray as she slipped her hands around the front, and moved enough so that she could stroke the length of him, again and again. He ached to feel her mouth on him, or better yet, bury himself inside of her again. But their confines made both an impossibility.
She stroked and kissed and nibbled her way across his chest. He sunk his fingers into her hair, framed her face, and then finally reached up and gripped the circular shower rod over his head as her hands worked their magic on him. He wanted her, to do this for her, but hadn’t expected the tables to turn so swiftly, so erotically, so…
Her grip tightened, oh so perfectly, and he didn’t even have a chance to prepare. Climax surged up, ripped through, and was upon him before he could even catch his breath. He grunted, growled, and shook as he came. Her hands never left him, her mouth shifted to soft kisses to the center of his chest. Just over his heart.
His knees were weak, but he pulled her to him, into his arms, and just held on. She slid her arms low around his waist and held on just as tightly, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder.
He could feel both of their hearts thundering, but neither spoke. The water gradually turned cool, and he somehow found the wherewithal to grope behind him and spin the antique lever knobs to off without freezing or scalding them.
She started to move, but his hold on her instinctively tightened. He wanted to say…something. Let her know what he was feeling, find out what the tears were all about, and about a million other things he’d never once been compelled to want to find out. Easy enough to say that it was the mind-blowing climaxes doing the talking, but it felt like a cop-out, even now.
“Kirby-”
The damn phone chose that moment to start ringing again.
He supposed he should be happy it hadn’t lit up five minutes earlier.
But this time she did move, did reach through the damp curtain for the towels folded on the rack just beyond the side of the claw foot. “I really should-”
“Kirby,” he said, a little more insistently this time, tipping her chin up to his.
She didn’t avert her gaze, but what he found there didn’t answer any of his questions. The tears were gone, but in their place was something he couldn’t see through, couldn’t read. “Please,” was all she said.
He let her go.
She didn’t flee, exactly, but it was close to it.
He stepped out, dried off, and wrapped the towel around his hips. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. He could hear her in the next room, her office, talking quietly on the phone, too quietly to hear the actual conversation. He could only assume it was business. He thought about waiting, but maybe it was best to give her some room. So, after giving a quick scan of the foyer, making sure no one had suddenly shown up looking for a room while he was having the time of his life in a little claw-foot tub, he ducked through to the kitchen, scooped up his clothes, and hers, left hers draped across the back of the kitchen chair, and found the back way up the service stairs to the third floor. Handy to know, he thought, as he made the climb carefully in the tight little turnabout and high, stubby wooden steps. Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic.