FOR SOME REASON SARAH felt nervous. Which was ridiculous. She was a grown woman who’d been longing to get him alone for weeks. Now that he seemed to want to let her into his house, she wondered what other intimacies were in store, and whether she was as ready as she thought she was.
Trying not to let him see her feelings, she nodded and followed him inside.
It was always interesting to get inside a single man’s house. Was he a slob? A sports junkie? Did he have a collection of comic books? Had he decorated his space? Were the legacies of girlfriends past to be found? All this was yet to be discovered as she walked into his living room. And felt a strange sense of peace.
There was very little in the room. A few pieces of comfortable furniture, some black-and-white photographs hanging on pale gray walls, a tidy stack of books. Mostly there was space. No carpets covered the refinished wood floors, no ornaments cluttered the fireplace mantel or the single table.
He didn’t immediately flip on music, so she was conscious of the quiet as well as the feeling of calm in the room. “I don’t have coffee. Would you like some green tea?” he asked her.
Why was she not surprised?
“Yes. I would.”
She followed him into the kitchen and it was as neat as the living room. A couple of green plants in the window, bare countertops, four cookbooks in the space where a microwave was meant to be. “Don’t tell me you don’t possess a microwave?”
His eyes gleamed with self-deprecating humor. “I’m more into the slow food movement.”
She felt like banging her head against the gleaming, naked countertop. What was she doing here?
Then he turned and walked toward her. He raised his hands to cup her chin and slowly leaned in, kissing her in the slow, unhurried way he did everything.
And in that moment, she had an inkling that some things were really much better done slowly.
His lips were warm, gentle, and his hands moved slowly from her face to her hair, still slightly damp, she imagined when she felt his hands push into it.
He kissed her for a long time, standing in the middle of his kitchen, while the kettle sighed softly on the stove and her body grew increasingly aroused. She wanted to rip his clothes off him and take him right here on the kitchen floor, but she understood that he wanted them to take their time, and for once she was willing to give over control, fairly certain she’d be rewarded for her patience.
And it was taking all the patience she possessed and some she thought she must be borrowing from somewhere to stand still and let him diddle-daddle around, playing with the earring in her lobe, tracing patterns on her fully clothed back.
All the while her pent-up excitement grew. When the kettle finally blew its whistle she knew exactly how it felt. The noise startled them both, and he pulled away, saying, “Maybe the tea can wait.”
“I think so.”
Then he took her hand and led her upstairs to his simple, sleek bedroom. No television, one book on the nightstand, no clothes scattered everywhere. A black wardrobe, one chair and the bed. It would look like a monk’s cell except for that bed. A king size with nubby linen sheets that had the ecofriendly expensive look. She got the feeling that while he didn’t have a lot of stuff, what he bothered to own he treasured and chose carefully.
Dappled light played through his window, patterned to lace shadows by a tree outside. He resumed kissing her. Right where he’d left off, as though he’d forgotten the taste of her and needed to start all over again.
Time seemed to drift as she stood there, feeling lazy and special. When he’d explored her mouth fully, he finally got around to helping her off with her hoodie, making such a production of it that she felt like she was doing the dance of the seven veils. Mysterious and sexy.
Under it she wore an athletic shirt—not the one she’d sweated in earlier, but a much nicer one that made the most of her meager curves. Besides that she wore only jeans, a black lacy thong and leather sandals.
He took half a century peeling her top up over her belly, stopping to kiss and caress the skin he revealed. When he pulled it up over her breasts, she heard his breath catch. Hah! she thought. Surprise. One of the nice things about being small-breasted was that she could easily forgo a bra when she felt like being casual.
Clearly, Mr. I’m In No Hurry had been expecting a bra and the way he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her breasts, or keep his hands off them, told her he wasn’t nearly as Zen as he pretended to be. From the pace of his breathing, she thought he wanted to rip off her clothes and take her right here, right now, as much as she wanted him to.
But he didn’t.
Controlling himself with an effort she had to admire, he went back to his slow, meandering exploration of her body.
He sat her down on his bed, reached down to tug her sandals off her feet before stroking up her legs.
“Could you do something for me?” she asked, trying not to pant.
“What is it?” She was pretty sure he was trying not to pant, too.
“Would you take off your shirt?”
The slow, sexy smile dawned. “Yes, ma’am.” And he peeled his T-shirt over his head.
Even though she’d watched him contort himself and had seen the muscles in his arms, she’d never seen his torso naked. The man was gorgeous. Hard-muscled and yet lean, with a subtle six-pack. Copper-penny nipples and a delicious arrow of hair that pointed to hidden treasure.
His skin was beyond warm, so hot he felt feverish.
He reached for the button of her jeans. “You going commando everywhere?”
“No. I’m wearing panties.”
He undid her jeans and eased them down over her hips. When he raised his gaze to her hips he groaned. “Those are not panties. You can see everything,” he complained in mock horror.
He raised his gaze until it connected with hers. “I bet those don’t even cover your butt.”
Feeling silly and sexy and delicious, she rolled over. “See for yourself.”
He not only looked, but he also touched, and then he removed the last of his clothes and climbed into bed with her. He took her into his arms and kissed her.
“You are such a good kisser,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Glad you think so, because I am going to kiss every inch of your beautiful body.”
And he did.
She lost track of time. For a woman who billed by the hour, whose schedule was blocked in fifteen-minute increments, who had clocks all over her home and office so she always knew what the time was, it was an extraordinary experience. But she truly did lose any sense of where she was in her day. And as her body trembled, and the man who’d made her wait finally entered her body, she decided that there was a lot to be said for taking the time to do one thing well.
He didn’t rush her, or himself, seemed content to make love for hours, as though climax would come to them when it felt like it. She’d never been with anyone like that before and instead of focusing on achieving orgasm, she found herself experiencing her body and this new man’s, enjoying every thrust and slide, every moan and soft whisper, how her skin felt against the soft cotton sheets, how his skin slid against hers. When she climaxed, he didn’t treat it like an event, but like a wave, and there were plenty more waves out there, so they drifted and crested and played until, deeply satisfied, she dozed, wrapped in his arms.
When she woke, satisfied and smug, she said, “I lost track of how many orgasms I had.”
He opened one eye, a blue gleam against his tawny skin, and mumbled, “Do you usually keep score?”
She nodded. “Of course I do. I track everything. My time, my expenses, my billable hours, it’s like my whole life is one big tally sheet.”
“Good thing I came along,” he informed her.
She was about to sling him a stinging retort when she considered that if she’d remembered to keep track of her orgasms, she was pretty sure she’d have needed more than the fingers of one hand. Most of the time, she was lucky to have one. She wasn’t going to call him on his attitude. Not yet, anyway.
Instead she gave his delectable round butt a resounding slap. “Come on, gorgeous. We have a wedding to go to.”
He turned onto his back and regarded her with a gleam of speculation. “You know, they’ll still get married whether we’re there or not.”
“But they’re my friends. Besides, my best friend is catering the wedding and I promised I’d be there.” Since there was no clock in his room—how did the man get up in the morning?—she dug out her cell phone and gave a squeal of alarm. “We’ve got to get going or we’ll be late. I’ll run home and change and be back in, oh, crap, an hour.”
“Hey, Sarah?” he said, not moving.
“What?” She was almost out the door.
“Bring your toothbrush. I want you to stay tonight. We barely got started.”