She wanted him, and that was the only thing that could be allowed to matter right now. She wanted him with all the yearning of a need that hurt, and terrified, and bewildered. But how could she make him see? How could she make him know, and share in that wanting until the desire for her consumed him in the same way her desire for him was consuming her?
"I..." Miles swallowed hard. His fingers tightened convulsively in the split second before they released her arms and reached for the collar of her blouse, his hands so tremulous and fragile-appearing despite their size that they might have been a pair of newborn leaves caught up in the violence of a murderous storm. "Before God," he said quietly, "I don't know what...how..."
For a second JoJo thought he meant only to straighten her collar. And for a second that was exactly what he did. Then his hands dropped, very naturally, slipping along the silken smootheness of her blouse until his no-longer-hesitant and not-at-all clumsy fingers closed around her breasts.
Slowly, slowly, he brushed his thumbs across the tightened points of her nipples, the thin layer of silk seeming to heighten the sensation rather than dim it. His gaze still locked to hers and boring into hers with that odd inquisitiveness that chilled at the same time that it warmed her to the very marrow, he stroked slowly. Oh so slowly, with a caress that at first ignited a small and steady flame deep inside her and then, with each succeeding touch, fanned it to a fluttering and searing-bright brilliance that filled her heart, and the room, and all the air around them.
Gasping, JoJo held her breath. And never allowed her gaze to stray from the dark gaze that held hers, demanding answers she knew she'd never be able to give because there were no answers. Only more questions. So many questions. So many causes for wonder, and delight, and curiosity.
Questions like...would the rest of him, all of him, be as large as the hands that toucher her, marveling at the shape and the size of her breasts? Would he...
Without warning he tilted his head downward. And brushed his mouth against hers.
It was only the slightest touch of sunlight-flavored flesh against hers, a fleeting, burning caprice of a touch that barely made contact, just as the touch of his hands had scarcely imprinted itself upon her breasts. But it was enough to awaken. Enough to set off a sweet explosion inside her, of moisture and eagerness accompanied by another wave of longing so charged she thought it must fuse her to him for life, flesh joined inextricably at lips and mouth, joined for all eternity at every point at which their skin made contact.
It was a kiss, and not a kiss. It was enough to chase away any last lingering of worry, any remaining shred of doubt that this could be right. That this could be meant to be. Because it was. It always had been.
The next time Miles kissed her, almost immediately, he stroked the top of his tongue across her lips, a swift and scalding suggestion of a touch that sent an even stronger, an even more inarguable drift of that sense of rightness down, into even the most hesitant, most secret and unguarded parts of her.
Right. Meant to be. |
