Page 13 of Bound By Fire
“You really don’t have to be.”
The doors open into a hallway with four doors in total. She leads me to the one on the end and keys the lock.
Her apartment is bigger than I expected and really nice. It has high ceilings. A long open room with a pale sofa, attached to an open-plan kitchen with white counters and one of those fancy espresso machines. There’s a wall of bookshelves crammed full of paperbacks, most of them with couples on the covers. There’s a large print on the wall of a flamingo.
It smells like her in here.
“This is nice,” I tell her.
“I like it. I made my ex move out so I could keep it. But let’s not talk about that, shall we?”
She drops her bag on the side table and turns to face me; her hands twisted together in front of her.
“Okay,” she says. “Take off your shirt.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’ll throw it in a quick wash with something that gets cranberry out. It’s the least I can do, since I?—”
I pull the garment over my head.
She stops talking. She doesn’t move so much as an inch.
Her gaze has gone soft and a little glassy. Her pupils are blown wide. Her lips part on a small inhale as she takes in my chest, my arms, the ink that runs down over my pecs and across my ribs.
“Forget the shirt,” I say, dropping it at my feet.
She blinks up at me. “Yeah, but?—”
“Forget it.”
I close the distance between us in one step. I cup her jaw in both hands and kiss her.
She melts.
Her whole body softens into me. Her hands come up and plant flat against my bare chest, and she makes a sound into my mouth that goes straight to my cock. I angle her head and kiss her deeper. She gives me her tongue. She makes one of those small moans again, higher than the last one.
I could do this all night, even though there will be more. So much more.
I pull back just enough to speak against her lips.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
“Down the hall.”
“Show me.”
She takes my hand. Her fingers tremble a little, and she leads me past the sofa, past the bookshelves, down a short hallway,and into a room on the right. She flips the switch, and a lamp on the bedside table comes on, golden and soft.
Her bed is made. It’s white linen, with a folded throw at the foot, and two pillows stacked neatly. There’s a novel open face-down on the table next to the lamp.
She turns to me, and I can see the nerves rising again. Her fingers are twisting together in front of her stomach, and her shoulders are creeping up toward her ears.
I bring my hands up and cup her jaw again. I tilt her face up to mine.
“Robyn. We can stop at any time. I mean that. Any time. All you have to do is say the word.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
