The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [113]
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.
“Bad things happen, Quince. Someone I respect explained it to me once. We can’t stop all the bad things in the world. We can simply try to enjoy the good.”
“If I lost you . . .”
“You would get on with life,” she said bluntly. “So would I. We’re practical people, Quincy. And we’re tough, and we’re going to make it through this. Now stop talking. Stop thinking, stop analyzing, dammit, and kiss me.”
He obliged.
His first touch was light. In spite of her bold words, he knew she was nervous. He could feel the tension in her spine as his hand settled on the small of her back. He could feel the finite hesitation as she tilted back her head and offered her lips. She expected him to dive right in, and she had steeled herself for the attack. He wasn’t interested in a stoic or a martyr, however. He understood her history. Sex for Rainie had been about pain and punishment. Even if she thought it would be easier that way, he wasn’t going to rush.
He brushed the corner of her mouth with his lips. He raised his left hand, and feathered back her hair. Her eyes were squeezed shut. He ran the ball of his thumb over her silky eyelashes.
“That tickles,” she murmured.
He smiled. “Open your eyes, Rainie. Look at me. Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”
She opened her eyes. The gray depths were wide, translucent. He had never seen eyes quite like hers, the color of smoky, midnight skies. He bent lower, his gaze still locked on hers, and kissed her left cheekbone.
“Have I ever told you how much I love your profile?” he murmured. “Such a stubborn jaw and then these dramatic cheekbones . . .”
“I look like a Picasso painting,” she said.
“Rainie, you’re the most beautiful woman I know.” His lips came down and found her mouth. This time her gasp was unmistakable. Her spine relented. Her hands curved round his head. Her hips connected with his.
She had full lips, he’d appreciated that the first time he’d seen her. And he’d been struck by the dichotomy of her hard-boned face coupled with an undeniably sinful mouth. Men dreamed about lips like these. Men paid money, wrote sonnets, and sold their souls for lips like these. She should never have gone thirty-two years without appreciating her own sexuality, he thought. And he was honored that she trusted him with it now.
She shifted restlessly. He felt the faint gyration of her body through his hand on her waist. He took that as a signal to move lower, his lips feathering across her jawline, then down the long, smooth column of her throat. Her breathing quickened. He felt her pulse flutter beneath the tip of his tongue.
“Tell me a story,” he whispered as he dipped his head into the V of her soft chambray shirt and inhaled the fragrance of her skin.
“I can’t . . . talk.”
“I don’t want you remembering, Rainie. I want you in this moment with me.” He picked up her left hand and placed her palm on his chest, where he knew his heart was racing. “Talk to me about anything you wish. You talk. I’ll touch.” His lips returned to her throat.
“Mmmmm, when I was a little girl”—her voice was husky—“I was . . . going to be . . . a gymnast. An Olympic athlete. Mmmm hmmmm.”
“You have an athlete’s body.” He ran his hand down her side, appreciating the taut feel of her form. She was a runner, like him. He had a sudden image of their long, naked limbs intertwined on white cotton sheets and had to catch himself. Breathe deep. Take it slow.
“Did you take lessons?” he asked softly, his fingers finding the first button of her shirt and slipping it free.
“Lessons?”
“Gymnastics.”
“Mmmmm . . .”
He kissed the base of her throat.
“No . . .”
“Watch competitions?” His lips whispered across her collarbone while his leg slipped between hers, supporting her weight and simultaneously making her gasp.
“I watched . . . the Olympics. . . .”
“The Olympics are good,” he said. He undid the final button on her shirt. The sides fell open. She shivered as the cooler air hit her skin, but didn’t protest.
“Nadia