doing precisely this.
If only his erection wasn’t begging for more.
He repositioned again, higher to savor the honey of her lips at the same time his touch wove down: over her ribs, the curve of her waist, the subtle flare of a hip, then up over the same terrain. He was performing a repeat descent, stroking and playing—anticipating the added treasures he’d discover this time around—when she grunted, shifted and pushed against his chest.
He froze. Then, eyes snapping open, he rolled away. What was wrong? Had he hurt her?
When she slid over too—on top of him—he held his brow and almost laughed with relief.
“What are you doing?”
Crouched on his lap, she slid her hips one way and the other then tossed back the hair fallen over her face. “What do you think?”
She slid up a little this time then down over his throbbing shaft. That sent him reeling way too close to the edge. He was thrilled she was so completely in the zone that she wanted to take the reins, but any more of that kind of maneuvering and he’d reach the finish line way too soon.
He flipped her over so she lay on her back again, him firmly on top. While she peered up at him, a saucy glint in her eyes, his hand burrowed between them, down the front of her panties, and his erection grew heavier still. She was warm and moist. When his touch curled up between her folds and pressed against a woman’s most sensitive spot, she let out a time honored sound that told him she was ready.
Leaning over, he opened his bedside drawer, found the pack then tore a single foiled wrap with his teeth. As he rolled on protection, her fingers sluiced up and down his sides. Oh, he wanted to take this slower. Make it last. But this time, with this lady, that wasn’t going to happen.
Sheathed, he positioned himself, took a long slow kiss from her welcoming mouth then eased inside. Her walls clamped around him at the same time her hips lifted and she opened her mouth wider, inviting him deeper.
With one arm curled around her head, he drove in and clenched every muscle as a mind-tingling burn hardened him more. He felt as if he was drowning in a lake of fire. All exposed nerve endings and profound sizzling need.
Bailey trailed her fingers down his neck, felt the cords bulging and pulsing, and melted more. The way he moved with her left her breathless while his mouth on hers raised her up. She wanted this moment to go on forever. Never wanted the steep waves of pleasure to wane or fade. And yet they both needed to go that bit further. Needed to be thrown up to the stars and explode on their way back down.
He was snatching slow kisses from her brow, from her cheek, holding her hip securely as his strokes grew ever stronger and longer. The friction was scolding, the pleasure beyond what she could take.
And then his kisses stopped and his body grew still and hard. She sensed his every tendon stretched trip wire tight, could feel his heart thumping and pounding in his ears. The mind-altering fire at her core intensified, somehow changing in dimension and in shape. Then, in one finite moment, in less time than it took to suck down a breath, all the universe contracted into a single high-voltage speck. Beyond that nothing existed. Nothing but black.
When he thrust again—when he hit that secret wanting spot—she threw back her head, spread her wings and flew.
Seven
“Tell me more about France.”
At the sound of Bailey’s voice filtering though the predawn mist, Mateo lifted his head off the pillow and dropped a kiss on her silky crown.
They’d made love well into the night. The first time had been incredible. Incomparable. But over far too quickly. The second time they’d slowed down enough to thoroughly explore each other’s bodies and share their most intimate needs. The third time they’d come apart in each other’s arms might have been the best … the time when he’d truly begun to see that this joining meant more than simply great sex. The connection they shared, the amazing way they fit, was special.
That didn’t mean he’d changed his mind about getting serious. About settling down. Invariably marriage meant children. Children of his own. But his practice was his life. He’d put all he had into doing his best and building a home that was his. He had everything he needed. Everything and more. He felt secure, and that was life’s most valuable gift.
If he were to become a husband … a father … well, he couldn’t think of a more vulnerable place to be. There were concerns over the complications in the womb, worry about childhood disease, not to mention the fact that in this world he had no living family now, other than Mama. If fate stepped in and left his child without parents …
Mateo swallowed against the pit formed in his throat.
This is why he never let himself analyze relationships too deeply, particularly following the “after all she could get” Linda incident. He was a man of influence and means who could choose what course his life should take. Tonight he’d chosen to act on the undeniable chemistry he shared with Bailey. Given she’d asked about France a moment ago, he hoped they could continue to enjoy the attraction a while longer. For however long it might last.
Nestled in the crook of his arm, she twined to rest her chin on her thatched hands, which lay on one side of his chest.
“What’s it like?” She asked, looking beautifully rumpled and sleep deprived but content. “Everyone seems to love Paris. Did you ever get into the city when you were young?”
“As a child?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t know Paris existed.”
She sat up a little, bracing her weight on an elbow as she searched his eyes in the misty light. Outside, the morning sun peeked over the distant rise, painting a translucent halo around her head.
Her voice softened when she asked, “Were you very lonely there? At the orphanage, I mean.”
Mateo’s jaw tensed. His first instinct was to push her question aside. If anyone, including Alex or Natalie, brought up his childhood, he rarely gave away too much. The past was past … even if it was never forgotten.
But lying here with Bailey after the extraordinary night they’d shared, he felt closer to her this minute than anyone he’d known. That shouldn’t be. He’d loved and respected Ernesto. He adored Mama. He had friends he would do anything for and, he was certain, vice versa.
And yet, he couldn’t deny it. Whatever drew him to Bailey Ross was a force unto itself. He wanted to share more than his bed with her tonight. He wanted to open up … at least this once.
“I wasn’t lonely,” he began. “I had many friends and adults I knew that cared for us all.” He thought more deeply and frowned. “I did feel alone, which is different, but I was too young to understand why. I never knew my parents. No one explained about the ‘who’ or the ‘when.’ I didn’t realize a life outside the orphanage existed until my fifth birthday.”
Sitting up, she wrapped the sheet around her breasts, under her arms. “What happened on your birthday? I don’t suppose you had a party.”
“From what I can recall, the day was pleasant enough. Everyone sang to me after lunch. I got a special dessert along with two friends I picked out.” He searched his memory and blinked then smiled. “I received a gift. People from town donated them. I tore open the paper and found a wooden train. Green chimney,” he recalled. “Red wheels. I thought I was made.” But his smile slipped. “Then my best friend said he was going away. That a mother and father were taking him home.”
Bailey tucked her knees up and hugged her sheet-clad legs. “It mustn’t have made sense.”
He flinched at a familiar pang in his chest and for a moment he wanted to end that conversation and talk about the France people found in travel books. The “gay Paree” with which Bailey would identify. But she wasn’t listening to this story to snatch