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Thomas’s nose flares at what he sees and I contemplate kicking the flush button and hoping for a Harry Potter Ministry of Magic escape.
I settle for averting my eyes, where, in the tiny mirror above the even tinier sink, I watch Thomas’s hand move toward my breasts – small red splotched mounds topped with flesh-colored, flower-shaped pasties.
Just before his index finger makes contact, I close my eyes. Whether it’s to brace for pain or pleasure, I’m not sure.
Either way, it doesn’t work.
His other hand joins the first, one keeping the tender skin of my right breast taut while the other, using the very tip of his finger, lightly rolls the edge of the adhesive back.
It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, although that could be because I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
With slow, methodical touches, the adhesive lifts and rolls away and the pain is replaced by goosebumps, Thomas’s cool touch on my irritated skin doing things to me I never thought Thomas Moore could do.
But no, that’s wrong. He has done such things. Just last night. But I’d assumed the alcohol had intensified my memories. That what I recalled as I cursed and avoided him today was intoxicatingly exaggerated.
Thomas’s fingertips pluck the rolled pastie off my breast and I have to bite my lip to hold back a moan.
Apparently not.
‘There we go.’ Through slitted eyes I watch him throw the first pastie away, before beginning the same process with my left breast.
My lungs scream for more air, but I refuse to oblige, not wanting my chest, on full display, to give away my newly wanton libido with my sudden rapid breathing. My legs stiffen, wanting to shift, but I suppress that too by pressing my thighs together.
By the time the second petal falls, I’m seconds away from passing out, dots of light swimming underneath my eyelids.
Hoping he thinks it’s because I’m relieved to be free of the pasties, I allow myself to suck in a deep breath, slump forward, bracing myself on his shoulders.
My shirt should’ve lowered back in place, covering my exposed skin. Except it doesn’t. Instead it has fallen over the backside of Thomas’s brown hair, trapping him millimeters from my nipples.
Shoot me now.
But instead of a gun to put me out of my misery, Thomas uses his lips, kissing my nipples like one might kiss away a boo-boo.
A whimper escapes with my next breath.
His lips trail across my chest, moving from one nipple to the other, giving it the same service.
Wet heat soothes my skin when he adds his tongue to the touch.
My whimper evolves into a full-fledged groan, my hands fisting his shirt at his shoulders, pulling myself closer to his mouth. His hands slide under my shirt from the back, pressing me closer still.
But it isn’t close enough.
If anything, the alcohol last night only served to dampen the intensity. That would scare me if I wasn’t so turned on right now.
When the tips of his lips pull at one nipple, sucking it, I raise one leg, hooking it under his arm, anchoring it across his back.
This time, he groans.
The pulse between my legs beats harder. Hotter.
‘Thomas…’ It’s a plea, but I’m not sure what I’m asking for. I told myself that last night was a blip. A fantasy. An aberration from my normal, daily boring life.
And yet this not only feels very real but insanely wonderful.
In answer to my plea Thomas nibbles, the tiny bite of pain making the pleasure that much more intense.
‘Ahh—’
