Before I Melt Away

by Isabel Sharpe

  He tasted clean, male; she lifted off and bent down further, took his balls in her hand and nuzzled them, then let her tongue manipulate the small sacs inside.

  His hands landed gently on her head, caressing her hair, not guiding her, letting her know he remembered she was attached to that mouth, thanking her for the pleasure. She smiled up at him again.

  “Annabel.” He whispered her name, touched her face, traced her eyebrows, her cheekbones, her lips.

  She waited for more, but he just stroked her face gently with one finger, gazing at her as if nothing else in the world mattered.

  And while kneeling at his feet, trying to be provocative and utterly sexual, something strange shifted in Annabel’s heart. She felt all at once joyous and mournful; as if she wanted to get up and dance and maybe curl up and hide. Happy and sad; brave and scared to death.

  Infatuation. Right?

  “More?” She gave him a coy look and couldn’t help grinning when he raised his eyebrows in a look that clearly said Why on earth would I say no?

  She took him back in her mouth and settled into a rhythm, hands helping, wanting him to go out of his mind with how good it was.

  But this time there was no thought of winning out over other women, and no more of wanting him to think she was the best he’d ever had. This time she just wanted him to feel wonderful because he’d made her feel wonderful so many times in so many ways.

  Infatuation.

  He moaned softly and she sped up the rhythm, turned on by his excitement even though she was the one giving. His hands found her hair again, urged her on in her rhythm without forcing. She sucked him avidly, eyes closed, passionately and insistently, bent on making him wild.

  The first taste of his excitement registered in her mouth; the hands on her head slowed her rhythm, then stopped her. She lifted up slowly, then glanced questioningly at him from her knees.

  “Stand up.” He took her shoulders and half lifted her. “I want to undress you.”

  She stood in front of him, waiting for him to start, and became suddenly aware of her work-tired body, of the cooking smells that probably clung to her, of the stains on her clothes. “I didn’t get to shower.”

  “Shh. You’re fine. You’re beautiful.” He put his finger to her lips, then his warm hands slipped to her waist, raised her shirt, lifted it up and over her head, leaving her in her cotton camisole and bra. He ran his finger along the neckline of the camisole, the thin material nearly see-through. “One of these days I’d like to see you in this with no bra. Very sexy.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Okay.”

  As if she’d deny him anything right now. She’d never felt so nervous to be naked in front of a lover, like she was some virgin bride instead of the woman who had stripped off both clothes and inhibitions on camera. At the same time she was dying for the feel of his skin against hers, cheeks together, toes together and everything in between. Finally. After what seemed like weeks of wanting.

  Off came the camisole, slid up and pulled over her head, then the tightening and release of the elastic around her chest and her bra joined it on the edge of a nearby chair. Her breasts hung free, tightening in response to the cool air and his nearness.

  He brushed his thumbs around her areolas, over the nipples. Her breath caught coming in, then going out. Oh, it felt incredible. The way he touched her, unapologetic, confident, possessive, was as exciting as the sensations themselves. His hands swept lower, eased her black work pants down, then slid under her panties to caress her hips and lower the material off. She stepped out of both pants and panties eagerly with one foot, and lifted the other to let them slide off to the side.

  There. Naked. Not knowing how to stand or where to put her arms—why was she being like this?

  He caught her hands, lifted them to the side and over her head and stood there, with their arms forming an arc between them, gazing at her, her breasts thrust toward him by her slightly arched back, her stomach pulled flat by the same arch, the trimmed hair between her legs, then her legs themselves, all the way down to the floor.

  “And?”

  He looked at her curiously. “And what?”

  “Do I pass inspection?”

  He let go her hands and grabbed her up; she gave a silly squeal of surprise when he deposited her on the bed and loomed over her, grinning. “You are the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She rolled her eyes, ridiculously pleased. “Right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You say that to all your women.”

  “Not to any of them. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He lifted himself off the bed and left the room, his feet nearly soundless on her hardwood floors except for the one creaky board near the door.

  Not to any of them? Was he serious? He couldn’t be.

  Oh, but she wanted him to be. Utterly, cross-his-heart serious.

  The hall-closet door opened and closed; the water ran in her bathroom, then shut off. What was he doing? Annabel stretched on the smooth cotton of her sheets and stared at the ceiling, waiting to find out. The cool air in the room caressed her body. The music soothed her, and the candles sent shadows flickering on her walls. There wasn’t anywhere in the world she’d rather be right now, no one she’d rather be with. The evening couldn’t be more perfect.

  Until the thought that her affair with Quinn would be over soon invaded her beautiful happiness and threatened to turn it butt-ugly. She wanted more nights like this with him. She wanted an unlimited supply, stretching ahead of her night after night forming a long row of nights, like a magic bridge spanning the rest of her…

  Uh-oh.

  Life?

  The board near her door squeaked again. She swallowed her sudden panic and made herself smile genuine welcome at his return. “Hey.”

  “Miss me?”

  “Terribly.”

  He sat next to her on the bed, tossed a pack of condoms onto the mattress and held up a wet washcloth and a towel. “Here’s the shower you wanted.”

  She struggled up to her elbows and scowled playfully. “You are seriously spoiling me. Soon I’ll start demanding jewels and large appliances, then villas and small countries.”

  “Someone needs to spoil you. You never do it.”

  “Oh? And who spoils you?”

  He sent her a look. “The job is open.”

  “Do I need references?”

  “No. You’re hired.” He cupped her chin playfully, then dropped his hand. “But it’s your turn now. Lie back and relax. Close your eyes. You’re going to like this.”

  “Yes, sir.” She lay back and closed her eyes, not quite able to relax. He had the money to spoil himself any way he wanted to whenever he wanted to. She would have thought that was enough. Then the warm washcloth hit her left foot in a slow massaging motion, and she moaned in pleasure. On the other hand, there were some things money couldn’t buy. Like having someone who cared about you, someone you were infatuated with, do the little everyday things that made life more than just a question of routine.

  Quinn had no one to do those things for him. And in an unexpected wave of emotion that almost hurt, she wanted to be the one who could. Even for a while.

  The washcloth traveled up higher, each slow, massaging stroke followed by the soft warmth of the towel, then the equally warm lips of Mr. Quinn Garrett, kissing her instep, her ankle, her knee, her lower thigh, her upper thigh…and oh darn, on to her fingers, just when she was gathering steam for the good stuff.

  Each finger wet, massaged, dried, kissed, her forearm, upper arm, the process repeated on the other side. Then her shoulders, neck, her face, forehead, nose, lips washed, dried, kissed. She was losing her ability to breathe, caught between arousal and relaxation and the incredible tenderness of his actions, his attention to and reverence for her body’s every part.

  The washcloth trailed down, cool now, over her breasts. He must have lifted it then, because the edge swung back and forth on her skin until her nipples reached up like
indignant sentinels under threat of attack. The air turned them chilly almost to where it was unpleasant, then the heat of his mouth made her eyes shoot open. She gasped and arched into the pressure.

  “You like that?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Mmm, me too.” He moved to her other breast, traced the darker skin with his tongue, then bent and suckled again. Oh, she so loved that feeling, his warm, strong mouth on her cold, sensitive skin. She clutched his hair, lifted her hips, though there was nothing to push against—and why wasn’t there? She was ready.

  “Quinn.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Can we—can you—”

  “Shh. Be patient.”

  She groaned. Patient? She was going to die of horniness; you didn’t talk patience in life-or-death matters.

  The bath from heaven continued, slowly—way too slowly—down her stomach, her abdomen, just brushing the tip of her pelvis, then…

  “Be right back.”

  Annabel moaned in frustration and heard him chuckle as he left the room. She smiled, lay waiting, eyes closed again, skin tingling from the alternating warm and cold and from his touch, anticipating his return and the washcloth between her legs—but mostly anticipating his return.

  She was nuts about him. It was crazy.

  He came back into the room. She kept her eyes closed, afraid that if she opened them she was going to beg him to stay in Milwaukee or take her back to California, give her a big wedding and lots of babies.

  “Lift.”

  Her hips lifted. She felt a towel pushed under her, then his hands guided her back down.

  “Spread for me, Annabel.”

  She obeyed his whispered command, opened her legs and felt the drip of hot water on her clitoris, trickling down her sex, caught by the towel under her. Then the washcloth was gently moving down and up, spreading her, cleaning her, arousing her like mad. Again the trickle of water. Again the slow slide of cloth on her sex.

  She arched up into the sensation, breath coming harder, relaxation dissipating into the urgency of arousal.

  Again the stream, the rubbing, then his touch stopped. She lay squirming slightly and felt his breath on her, blown through pursed lips, cooling her wet, heated sex.

  Then the abrupt shift to warm as his open mouth joined to her, tongue probing, caressing, sending her to the edge of heaven.

  But heaven like this wouldn’t be enough, not tonight. She wanted them both to get there, if not exactly at the same time, then close. More than that, while their bodies engaged the physical, she wanted his face up here with her, his mouth to kiss, his words near her ears. She wanted him, wanted the emotions that she knew were going to come with the orgasms tonight.

  This was infatuation, wasn’t it?

  She put her hands to his shoulders, tugged him up gently. He understood—didn’t he always understand?—slid up beside her, grabbed the condom and put it on while she stroked his arm, his back, unable to stop touching him. He was so beautiful, so male, so perfectly stunning in the soft candlelight.

  “Annabel.”

  “Mmm?”

  He moved over her and stopped, knees between her legs, hands on either side of her head, watching her intently. “I want to make love to you.”

  She swallowed sudden fear. Why was she scared? This was what she wanted, too. “Yes.”

  “Not screw, not fuck, make love. Do you understand?”

  A tear found the corner of her eye and spilled over onto her cheek. “Yes.”

  “Is that what you want, too?”

  She looked into his eyes, trying her damnedest not to start sobbing, and nodded.

  “Good.” He smiled then, leaned down and kissed her mouth so tenderly she started to cry in earnest.

  “Uh…Annabel?” He drew back and stared at her in concern. “Is this a truly miserable moment for you?”

  Laughter mixed in with her tears, then took over completely.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m a total case. I’m sorry.”

  He waited, smiling, until her weird hysteria spent itself. “It’s okay. I think I know what you mean.”

  “What.” A stray giggle burst out. “I wish you’d tell me, because I am so confused by how I feel, I haven’t a clue.”

  “No? Let me explain.” He brushed hair back from her forehead, then bent and kissed her again. “Like this.”

  Her giggles died; she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back as if she was being handed her last chance to kiss a man for the rest of her life. No, more than that. So much more than that. As if it was her last chance to kiss Quinn.

  The kiss turned openmouthed, hot, passionate. He lowered himself onto her; she opened and lifted to welcome him in.

  He slid inside and began to move, filling her body, filling her heart.

  She wanted to cry out even before her body was ready to come. She wanted him to move harder, and she wanted him to stay gentle. She wanted it to last forever, this hot stroking of their bodies, the push-pull excitement of his erection slowly thrusting and receding inside her. He lowered his head next to hers, cheek pressed to her cheek, slid his arms under her to gather her closer still, and rode gently, reverently, hugging her to him as if she was part of him.

  I love you.

  The words bubbled up from deep inside her, came shooting into her consciousness. I love you. She shook her head next to him, her forehead bumping his temple. She couldn’t love him. She’d be lost, swallowed up, obliterated. Her life would take a completely different turn now that she’d finally found the path she really, really wanted to take.

  “What is it?”

  She screwed her eyes shut, ashamed that she wasn’t brave enough to share what she was feeling. “It’s…so good.”

  “We’re so good.”

  “Yes.” She opened her eyes and looked into his. “We are.”

  His thrusting went off rhythm; his eyes darkened. Then he bent to kiss her, kissed her again, brought his arms out from under her, braced them on either side of her head, and thrust faster and with an element of mastery and ownership that unexpectedly drove her wild, unearthed some secret dark desire to be dominated.

  She pressed herself up against him, clasped his smooth muscled back close, closer, panting, emitting occasional cries like a wounded animal but feeling no pain, only the hot pleasure of their joining. And slowly, surely, amid the emotional turmoil and the arousal, something took over inside her, left her conscious self in the dust. Her body started striving for its completion; she opened her legs wider, brought her knees to her shoulders. He made a guttural sound and drove still harder. His lips found hers and he kissed her ravenously, tongue inside her mouth, now plunging to echo the movements of his hips, now circling hers. She wrapped her legs across his back, submitted completely, letting him move, letting him carry her closer…closer…the kiss pushing her over the edge that rushed inevitably toward her.

  I love you.

  She tensed, terrified she’d said the words out loud at the same time her orgasm swept her, burned its path upward, then receded into the pulsing contractions, the gradual decline of intense sensation.

  Quinn’s thrusting quickened further. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?” he panted.

  “Yes. It’s fabulous,” she whispered. “I love it hard.”

  He let out a low groan, three more thrusts and she felt his body tense into his own climax. A responding thrill shot through her. Her words had pushed him over, and she loved that he responded so perfectly to what she said and what she felt.

  Quinn lay quiet on top of her, breathing long, grateful breaths. She skimmed her hands over his back, his buttocks, his shoulders, still shocked by the intensity with which those three little words had insisted on being spoken out loud.

  Thank goodness, she hadn’t; Quinn would have freaked. She shouldn’t even be thinking them. There was no way she could be in love in such a short time. If the words had come out, she’d have ru
ined everything, complicated her life to a degree that would take weeks if not months, if not a lifetime to uncomplicate.

  He lifted his head and smiled, kissed her forehead, cheeks and chin. “Good?”

  “The best.” She smiled back, hoping she looked peaceful and fulfilled and not tormented like hell with feelings she couldn’t sort out.

  He rolled to one side, keeping their bodies attached, raised her leg so he could slip one of his in between hers. Then he started moving again, very slowly, gently, eyes closed, hand trailing down her thigh, body arched away from hers to keep a comfortable angle.

  She reached out and touched his chest, traced the now-damp curls of hair, looked down and watched the thick base of his erection appearing and disappearing inside her, arousal at a low, comfortable simmer. She could probably go all night with this man, all week. She hoped he’d never stop. Because once he left her body, he’d leave her house, too.

  As if he’d heard her, he opened his eyes, gradually slowed his thrusting, then touched her cheek, pulled out, got up and disposed of the condom. He blew out the candles then stayed at the window looking out.

  Annabel stiffened, throat miserably tight, waiting for him to turn on the light, already hating the shock of the coming brightness, knowing he’d leave, knowing it would hurt this time way more than it ever had. She’d had great sex before, but this had gone far beyond great sex into the land of the emotional, and left her raw and vulnerable in a way she hadn’t experienced before and didn’t much like.

  If only he wouldn’t leave tonight.

  “Can you stay?” She whispered the words into the welcome darkness, thankful for its cover. No way would she be able to hide her pain if he said no.

  “Yes. I’d like to.”

  Her breath came out on a small laugh of delight.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Not funny. Happy. What are you watching out there?”

  “The moon. It’s a tiny crescent, sharp like a piece of glass. And there’s a real thaw on, water dripping even at this hour.”

  “It was pretty slushy driving back.” She smiled at his broad, spreading shoulders silhouetted against the window by the light from the streetlamp outside. She felt relaxed, warm, utterly content discussing the weather with the man who had made love to her mind as well as her body and who was going to stay all night and probably do it again. It felt cozy and domestic and in some weird sense, as if she’d finally grown up enough to have a boyfriend, not just a lover.