William absently ran his fingers lightly up and down my arm, tracing a path from the base of my thumb to the crease on the inside of my elbow and back again, until I thought I was going to lose my tiny mind and fall screaming and twitching to the floor.
On the TV screen across the family room from us, camo-clad soldiers leapt out of a helicopter, apparently utterly captivating William, but the minute he’d tucked me in beside him on the lounge I’d lost track of anything besides his presence.
How could he sit there so totally entranced by this shoot-em-up-saga when I was sitting here beside him, acutely aware of every little thing about him? I knew how many breaths he took in a minute, I knew every time he stretched those impossibly long legs or shifted his weight in the squashy embrace of the couch. I’d noticed how dark his eyelashes looked against his cheek when he blinked and seen that in profile he had a bump on the bridge of his nose, which I wondered how he’d got. With my shoulder tucked in beneath his, I could feel the steady thump of his heart against my ribs and I wondered if it always beat at that speed or if maybe, just maybe, it was racing that little bit because I was here with him.
Mostly, I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him and that continual stroking against my arm was sending almost painful spikes of sensation through my skin, through my blood and nerves, setting off flares of longing and urgency in my stomach and thighs, and yes, burn me though it did to acknowledge it, in my breasts and even between my legs. I had to fight the constant urge to wriggle, to hitch my hips this way or that to stop that weird, aching, almost wanting sensation down there. Or maybe not exactly stop, just, more like, change to something a little less alarming.
It was strange but not exactly unpleasant. Unfortunately, all that weird activity was making me horribly conscious of all the ginger beer I’d drunk earlier and that my bladder was starting to bother me a little; just a little advance bulletin regarding upcoming needs, thank you very much.
I looked away from William’s absorbed profile and down at my arms, resting on a big cushion in my lap. One of William’s arms was there too, angled across the pillow so he could drive me bat crackers with that incessant, mindless stroking.
I wanted to get up and go to the bathroom. I wanted some of the potato chips sitting on the coffee table in front of us, out of my reach unless I moved and dislodged William. I wanted him to look at me and lean over to kiss me.
I wanted, I wanted, I wanted. I don’t think I’ve ever been more conflicted in my life.
And just like that, I went from confused to cranky. How dare he be so absorbed in the stupid bloody movie when I was sitting here beside him in my brand new, darkest indigo jeans and a turquoise tee that Tash swore made my eyes intense and sexy. So much for her advice. Obviously exactly what you put into the jeans and the sexy-eyes tee mattered a lot more than Tash realised.
Irritably, I hitched my hip sideways, trying to ease the spreading numbness in my butt. I’d been sitting still too long, petrified of moving and disturbing my stupid boyfriend while he watched his stupid movie. And it hadn’t mattered; William just kept looking at the screen and his hand just kept sliding up and down my arm. Stuff it, then, I was going to go for the chips. Who cared if I got fat? William obviously wouldn’t even notice.
I sat up, scooting my backside forward to lever myself from the depths of the lounge, and William’s fingers slid from my arm and brushed the side of my breast. I froze, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end, the skin of my breast pulling taut, nipple pinching painfully, like when I stripped off in my bedroom on a frosty-cold winter evening. My heart crashed against my ribs as I wondered frantically how I should react and whether he’d meant it—
“Hell, sorry,” he mumbled, which answered that. “I didn’t mean to do that. I—you must think I’m trying it on.”
“I don’t,” I murmured. Didn’t he want to touch me? Were all the whisperings and warnings about what guys wanted crap, or did he just not want me?
“I don’t want to rush this,” William said and I darted a glance at him. Something in the tone of his voice sent a shiver along my skin.
“I didn’t think you were,” I said.
“I hope not.” He paused and I felt the feathery touch of his fingers brush my arm again, so light I might have thought I imagined it except for the spinning stab of delight that shot straight from my arm to my belly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Oh,” I said, all that deliciously scary zinging energy snapping out with a dull deflating thud. Here it comes. I knew it.
I looked down at my twisted hands, resting on their protective pillow, and it was just too much. I dug my fingers into the pillow, ignoring the startled flare of pain in my joints, and flung it off me, furiously disappointed. The pillow flipped clumsily across the coffee table and thumped softly into the TV screen.
“What the hell—? Your hands.”
“I’m fine,” I ground out.
“But that must have hurt.”
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t you. You didn’t hurt me,” I said pointedly and William’s confused expression changed rapidly to one of enlightenment.
“Hey, I didn’t mean that.”
“Then what did you mean? Why does everything have to be about my stupid hands?”
William ran a hand agitatedly through his hair. I saw with some amazement that his hands, those strong beautiful hands I admired so much, were shaking. “Believe me, I think about other parts of you than your hands. Even though I shouldn’t.”
My heart just about stopped.
“Like what?” I asked him, heart now beating madly in my chest. I shifted on the couch so I was facing more towards him, wanting to see the look in his eyes when he answered me.
“What do you think?” he said. “These,” and he brushed the back of his hand over my breasts. I gasped and he looked at me intently, holding my gaze with his. “And this,” he added as he ran his thumb over my lips, “and this and this.” He ran his hand up my thigh and, on the final ‘this’, reached his hand around and planted it against my butt, scooping me towards him.
My heart skittered madly now and the one word that bounced around my brain was a jubilant yes! Yes and yes and yes! He did want me. Despite all my fears and doubts, he did want me.
I reached with both hands and cupped his face in my palms, curling my aching fingers lightly around his jaw and finally got the word out. “Yes,” I murmured, bold enough to meet his gaze now I had the answers I’d craved. “I want you too,” I added, because he sat there staring at me as though he hadn’t heard. Then I did what I’d wanted to do throughout the boring army-fatigues blur of the movie I hadn’t even wanted to watch. I drew his face towards mine and met his mouth with my own.
Into that kiss I guess I poured all my pent up frustration, all the longing I’d felt not just while I sat beside him that night but over the months I’d so relentlessly beaten down my feelings for him, convinced it was hopeless.
William made a thick, not-quite-a-word sound and then he kissed me back with a passion and enthusiasm I definitely hadn’t conjured even in my most desperate and daring daydreams. He pressed against me urgently, his long body warm and solid, his weight bearing me back into the springy depths of the couch. I sank beneath him, wrapping my arms around the back of his neck, plunging the fingers of my good hand into his hair. Oh, I’d wanted to do that for so long and the warm silkiness of it at last between my fingers was worth the creaking protest in my joints.
William, with his strong healthy hands, seemed to have been freed by my words for those hands were all over me. His palm slid over my breast, his fingers traced my collarbone, the heel of his hand briefly pressed against my hipbone. It was like he was learning me with his hands and I understood the urge. In my limited capacity I was doing the same to him.
We sprawled tangled together on the lounge and kissed and touched. A blissed-out, dreamy sensation gradually swept away my ability to think, breaking down sentences into irrelevant syllables and words with every touch of his hand, or change in pressure from his mouth on mine, or the pressure of his lips nibbling over my jaw and kissing shivers onto my neck, until all I could think was yes. Oh yes.