The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [114]
“Favorite what?” she mumbled.
“Gymnast.”
“Oh yeah . . . that. Mmmmm.”
He didn’t take off her shirt. Instead, he resumed kissing her mouth, which was opening now, meeting his own advance, and beginning to counter. He trailed more kisses along her jaw, then nuzzled the curve of her ear. Her head turned. She drew him back to her lips, her hips moving faster against his leg, her tongue finally, tentatively, wrapping around his own.
His hands stroked up her spine. They found the clasp of her simple white bra. He let it go, and the undergarment sagged forward.
“I thought you were supposed to do that with one hand,” Rainie whispered against his lips.
“I’m out of practice. Remind me next time, and I’ll show off.”
“Quincy?” she said softly. “Maybe . . . maybe we should move to the bed.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. He scooped her up in his arms and headed for the queen-sized bed. At the last moment, he tripped over her shoes. They went down in a tangle of limbs, but managed to land on the down-covered bed. The comforter puffed up. The pillows went poof. Rainie laughed breathlessly. And Quincy found his face between her half-covered breasts. He had to kiss one, then the other. Then his mouth was on her nipple and far from pushing him away, her hands were urging him closer.
“Gymnastics,” she was murmuring. “In this moment. Gymnastics, floor routines, balance beams. Quincy . . .”
Her sigh undid him all over again. He wanted bare skin against bare skin, moan meeting moan. No rush, take it slow. If he didn’t get his shirt off now, he was going to die.
He got his shirt off. He stripped off her loose top and dangling bra, then somehow he was on his back and she was on top of him, her pale white breasts pressed against the tanned expanse of his chest.
“I’m not thinking about the Olympics anymore,” she whispered.
“What?” he muttered thickly.
“Exactly.” She’d found the scar on his left shoulder. She kissed it. Then the small pucker down his arm. The other above his collarbone. “Who did this?”
“Jim Beckett.”
“Did you kill him?”
“His ex-wife did.”
“I like her.” Her head trailed down. She rained tiny kisses across his rib cage, down to his abdomen, and he sucked in his breath sharply. Her hair tickled him. The good kind of tickle. God, she was killing him.
“Quincy,” she said solemnly, “I don’t want to be like my mother.”
“You’re not like your mother.”
“Night after night. Guy after guy.”
“If there’s a new guy tomorrow night, I’ll shoot him.”
“All right then.”
“Rainie?”
She placed a finger over his lips. “Don’t say it,” she murmured. “Save something for afterwards.”
She slid off her jeans. She helped him shimmy out of his pants. Then she was on her back and he was poised above her. Her legs parted. Her hips lifted. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, filled with both delicate hope and grim resolution.
“Rainie,” he whispered. “It’s all right to enjoy life.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Neither do I. We’ll learn together.”
Her legs wrapped around his. He gritted his teeth and eased in slowly. He tried to be gentle, but immediately, her body stiffened. A spasm moved across her features. He stilled, wanting so badly for it to be good for her, trying so hard to make it good for her. Breathe deep. Don’t rush. And then a heartbeat later, her expression changed. Her body eased, adjusted. Wonder lit up her face. She shifted beneath him. Then again, then again.
“Easy . . .”
“Please . . . Now. Please!”
He bowed his head. He gave himself over to her and the feel of her hands urging his body. No more control. No more thoughts in his head. Rainie’s cries. Rainie’s body. Rainie’s trusting gaze.
She cried out. Surprised. Ecstatic. He took one moment to enjoy the expression on her face. Then it was too much; he joined her in the dark, shuddering abyss.
Afterwards, Rainie fell asleep first. Quincy