Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [54]
“Your place or mine?” I finally managed a few words.
“I . . . I,” Michael muttered, and he had a concerned look on his face.
“I’ll take that as an ‘aye, aye,’ ” I said, and grinned. He looked solemnly into my eyes.
“Michael, c’mon,” I said as I gently stroked the back of his neck and pressed myself against him. “This is good. This will be good. I swear. I promise. I hope? I think so.”
He smiled then and took my hand, leading me into the smaller bedroom. “This will be good,” he muttered softly. “Has to be. It’s all been leading here, to this moment. And here we are. Are you okay?’’
I smiled again. “You had me at ‘aye, aye.’ ”
Sixty-six
I WAS BOTH EAGER AND NERVOUS. Mostly eager, but . . . “This is always the worst part,” I said, sitting down on the edge of his bed.
“What is?”
“Taking my clothes off.”
“Maybe for you,” Michael said teasingly. “For me, seeing you take your clothes off will definitely be the highlight of the last several years.”
I started fiddling with the buttons on my blouse, and I suddenly had one of those weird, inconsequential concerns that always seemed to strike when I desperately needed to be focusing on something else. But here was a question for any ministers, priests, or rabbis out there: Is it all right to make love with your imaginary friend? Surely something filled with this much love couldn’t be a sin. But if it inexplicably was a sin, was it major or minor? Mortal or venial? What if your friend is an angel, or might be, but doesn’t know for sure himself?
Whatever it was, Michael saw my hesitation and took matters, and my blouse, into his own hands. He was pretty skillful at unhooking my bra — one-handed, and in less than five seconds.
“You’re good,” I said, feeling nerves fluttering in my stomach. I felt a blush rising on my neck and face.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, giving me a warm look.
“Oh, I hope so.”
“Me too.”
We started to kiss again, and then Michael cupped my breasts in his hands, making me whimper in a way that would be totally embarrassing under any other circumstances. In this case, I have to say, it sounded kind of hot. He held me gently, as if afraid of hurting me, and softly rubbed his thumbs over my nipples, making me shiver. Gentle, sweet, as nice as could be. Next, he traced my stomach with his fingertips. I liked that too and felt myself melting under his touch.
He had a beautiful touch. Sublime. Maybe he was an angel? At this point, I neither knew nor cared. The little hairs on my body were all standing on end, standing at attention, whatever happens at exquisite times like this. I had no idea: I’d never done exquisite before.
“I love the way you touch me,” I whispered against his cheek. “No one’s ever touched me like this.”
His breathing was getting rough, and he paused in kissing to say, “Me too.”
He tugged me down on top of him. Then his tongue licked lightly at my nipples, and my breath left me in a whoosh. I stopped thinking about whether Michael was experienced at this or not. We were together, and I just loved being with him. Maybe because I could tell that Michael was happy to be with me too. I could feel it in his touch, and I could see it in his green eyes. He was loving this as much as I was.
I kissed him again, tasted the sweetness of his mouth, then pulled my face away. I looked into his eyes and whispered, “Okay, yes, please.”
“Okay, Jane, yes, thank you,” Michael said, and smiled like the sun rising. Then he rolled me onto my back, and I was opening up for him and feeling his delicious weight on me, the heat of his skin. Then he was inside me, and this had to be the right thing to do, it just had to be, because Michael said, “I love you so much, Jane. I always have, and I always will.”
And that was exactly what I was thinking too, almost word for word.
Sixty-seven
THEY WERE TOGETHER for a long time that