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"I find you so beautiful," he said, and before she could reply, Ian buried his mouth between her thighs.
He stroked across her warm, moist flesh, and dipped his tongue inside her, the way he knew, just knew she would like.
When he pulled back, she said it just like she did in his dreams, "More. Please. More."
He could do that. He could do this all day and all night, taste her tangy sweetness and listen to her rhythmic cries of pleasure. When her thighs tensed, he pulled back, preventing her from an orgasm. Then he went back, licking and sucking, his body taut with desire, aching with the urge to possess her, but his control holding him back. He wanted to take her there again and again, so that she was insensible with want, then only then would he push inside her body. The floor was hard on his knees, a cool draft wafting over them, raising goose bumps on Bree's dewy skin, but he just pulled the quilt around her sides and kept going.
There was no awkwardness, no holding back, no first-time fumbles or strokes that caused zero reaction. Everything he did turned Bree on, and every sound, every move she made heightened his own arousal. They did know each other, they knew the steps to this dance, they knew where they were going and how to get there. Ian didn't stop to think about it, but just felt, just let it go, just focused on her body and its reaction and how to make the most of her acute pleasure.
When her moans were trailing off, her breathing and arousal so intense that her voice was raspy and losing projection, her thighs trembling, her eyes closed, arms slack against her sides, head turning restlessly from side to side as he ate at her, Ian knew it was time. Shucking his boxers, he used one hand to stroke her and the other to clumsily unroll the condom.
Then as he poised over her, he spoke the only words he ever remembered saying in his dreams. "Open your eyes, Bree. Look at me."
She did, her eyes a midnight blue, darkened with desire, glassy and bright in the waning afternoon light. "Ian," she said, voice husky.
Something about the way she said his name, the way she looked up at him, with trust and desire, twisted things inside Ian, and he felt a wave of possessiveness roll over him. This wasn't about just now, this was about him and Bree, being together, starting something powerful and intimate and sensual. He wanted her, in all the ways that mattered.
And it was real.
Bree's breath caught at the look on Ian's face. He looked fierce, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip, his biceps taut from holding himself over her. He had a sense of power about him, a control, a primal warrior quality about him. She never would have thought that, but now that she saw him, knew him on an intimate level, she knew it made perfect sense. He was successful because of those qualities, and right at the moment he was dedicated to driving her insane with want.
She didn't know how, or maybe she did in its unbelievable way, but he knew her body, understood what she liked without her speaking a word, and he had her primed and on the edge. If he had let her, she would have come six times already, but he had pulled back, kept her from an orgasm over and over, so that her body felt oversensitive, her mind liquid puree.
When he pushed inside her with a hard thrust, Bree knew it was over, that she couldn't stop it any longer, and she shattered, her back arching, her body clenching around him. He lengthened her orgasm by stroking in and out at the perfect pace, not too fast, not too slow, so that she could close her eyes and enjoy the pulsing ecstasy on and on, until she was fairly certain she had stopped breathing, had died, and had risen above her body to another plane of existence.
Could someone say holy shit? Bree pried her dry eyes open and stared up at Ian, her body jellied and slack on the quilt, his erection still hard and intimate inside of her, sparking little postorgasmic tremors. He was biting his lip, which she found endearing, and because he had done so right by her, Bree spread her legs farther and tipped her hips, so that he would go deeper.
In appreciation for her efforts, he gave her a low moan, then thrust harder, sliding her backwards on the quilt. She knew when he was going to come, saw it on his face, felt it in his pause inside her, understood that for whatever reason, she knew this man sexually, had a connection that was raw and intense and loaded with passion. When he collapsed on her chest, she welcomed his weight, enjoying the way he panted in her ear, and stroked her hair back from her face.
He stayed inside her while they both fought for air, and Bree tried to restore her heart rate to something less than a hummingbird's. She had no idea what to say, but the silence didn't feel uncomfortable. She could actually feel his smile, even without looking. It was there on his face, and she could feel it and hear it, and it made her smile in return.
It was three in the afternoon, and she was naked on the hardwood floor in front of her Christmas tree with a man she barely knew, and she felt nothing but contentment and a sensual satisfaction.
"Ow," Ian said, pulling out of her:
"Ow? Don't tell me that hurts."
"Well, it does, figuratively, but the reason I said 'ow' is because your cat just walked across my ass, claws out."
"Are you serious?" Bree tried to glance around Ian's shoulders for Akasha. "I didn't feel anything."
"That's because she walked on my ass, not yours." Ian kissed Bree's forehead and rolled onto his back next to her with a sigh.
Bree spotted her cat then, down by Ian's feet, looking up at her calmly, the mistletoe in her mouth. "Oh. She wanted what has become her new favorite chew toy."
"She definitely has a thing for mistletoe."
"I think I do now, too." Bree grinned at Ian. "It seems to be working for me."
He grinned back. "It's doing really positive things for me as well."
Bree would have been content to just lie naked with him for a while, but it was December, and she lived in a drafty old house. A wicked breeze was whistling in from the nonfunctioning fireplace and rushing over her flushed skin, making her shiver. The quilt was no protection since she cou
ldn't pull it fully over them or they'd wind up on the bare floor. She was about to give in to the inevitable and tell Ian they needed clothes or a bed or a hot shower, when he spoke first.
"I'm sorry, you're cold, aren't you? Here, stand up, and we'll wrap you in the quilt." Ian stood up, giving her a hell of a view of his tight butt, and reached his hand out to help her up.
It was such a small thing. Such an obvious thing. He knew she was cold, felt her shiver, wanted to fix it. No big deal. Common courtesy, the sign of an observant man. It was no big deal. Yet Bree could count on one hand the number of times the men she had dated had paid attention to her needs or wants on that level. It just showed her that her baby sister was right—she had definitely been dating the wrong sorts of men, and no matter what happened with Ian, he had shown her that she was done fixing broken men. She wanted a partnership, a mutual respect in a relationship.
