Thursday, July 7, 2011

From my current, untitled WIP

     “Sorry,” I said. “My grandmother taught me to cook. She was a bit of a germaphobe. 'Wash your hands, you'll get a stomachache,' she'd say. That and 'Don't eat bananas after five o-clock.' Oh, and 'If your lips itch, it means you want to be kissed.'”
     Dan stopped drying his hands on the dishtowel. “How do your lips feel?” He was right behind me. I turned around, expecting to see a teasing gleam in his eyes, but they weren't teasing. At all.
     “They might be a little itchy,” I whispered. He was so close. He smelled really, really good. I followed the nervous dip of his Adams apple, then reached up and pressed my lips to his cheek.
     “Lexi,” he breathed.
     “Kiss me.” He leaned forward and kissed my forehead. That wasn't what I meant.
     He opened his mouth to speak, but words didn't come.
     “What?” I prompted.
     “If I kiss you, I'll never stop.” I took a stuttering breath as he traced the curve of my jaw with his finger. His eyes were so dark—they went right through me. I reached for his hand and placed it on my cheek.
     That touch, or something in my eyes, must have released whatever was left of his reticence, because suddenly I was in his arms, his embrace tight, his lips hot and demanding on mine. Our mouths opened at the same time, as if by agreement, and we wrestled each other with our tongues. His had a sharp, frantic taste, and it made me gasp with pleasure.
     His lips still on mine, he began to drag me from the kitchen. I reached blindly for the stove, twisting off the burner under the saucepan so I didn't torch the place.
     “Hmph,” he grunted against my mouth, congratulating me on my display of fire safety. We made it to the couch, and I shoved his shirt up, high on his chest. My hands explored the contours of his body, caressing the sexy spattering of dark curls, tiny c's traveling down his stomach. He was trim and hard, his shoulders broad, hips narrow, as if he spent his days doing gymnastics instead of writing market analyses. He growled low in his throat as I scraped my nails across his ribcage.
     As I moved closer to his waistband, he diverted me, pushing me down and kissing my cheeks and throat. Then he laced my fingers between his and plucked soft, wet kisses from my lips. There was no more crazed heat between us, just a slow, steady burn. And although part of me wanted to sit up and climb him like a tree, the other, softer part never wanted this sweet embrace to end. We kissed for so long I lost track of time, and soon all that existed was Dan, enveloping me with his warm, gentle mouth. At some point I must have started to cry, because he finally stopped and caught a tear on the side of my face with his thumb.
     “Don't cry.”
     “I'm not. Am I?” And then I let out a choked sob, answering my own question.
     “I'm sorry,” he said as he sat up. “I shouldn't have started this.”

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