If It Makes You Happy(104)
Cliff
Her lips part as she stares at me like I’m a stranger.
“Why would you say that?” she whispers.
I might be offended if I were a lesser man.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I cup her cheek in my palm, and she leans into it.
The corner of her lips tilts up, and I return the lazy smile, bending down to press my lips against hers. I can feel her smile widening against my lips as she winds her arms up my shoulders to tie around my neck.
“I like you,” I murmur against her mouth.
She moans into it.
My hands roam over the waist of her velvet dress, up her spine, over her shoulders, holding her closer—as close as she can get. I’ve touched Michelle in quiet ways for weeks, little bumps or strokes along her knee and forearm, but the freedom to touch wherever I like is like carrying heaven in my palms.
And to be touched by her—to have her slender hands trail up my neck and dip into my hair—is all-consuming. The gentle thumb strokes over my temples, the way her lips open for me to sink my tongue into, the little breathy moans when I glide my palms back to her ribs …
I walk us backward. The backs of my knees bump against the couch arm. I perch against it and tug her hips between my knees, my hand dipping down to palm the plump curve under her tight dress with my other resting behind her head.
I could kiss her forever. I could spend hours tasting her until our lips were sore. But I’d be lying if I said that’s all I want. I want her.
I try to push off the couch—to carry her to my bedroom—but we only walk a couple of steps before she pushes me backward. I topple, off-balance, landing on the couch cushions with her standing over me.
I’m stunned, pressing into the cushions as I look up at the woman before me. She’s so proper with her black tights and Mary Janes and that emerald dress, hugging her hips and hanging off her shoulders. She’s a gorgeous city girl, dressed more for a New Year’s party than being here in my living room with a quilt draped over the couch and photos of my family hanging on the walls. We’re from entirely different worlds, but she’s here. With me.
Michelle slowly climbs on top of me, straddling her knees on either side of my thighs. The skirt of her dress rises, exposing the outline of her thong beneath sheer tights.
I run my palms over her legs, gripping tighter, rippling the fabric against my fingers as my thumb finds the crease of her hip. I trace along the deep line between her legs and the hem of her underwear.
She cups the back of my head and presses her hips down, grinding against my strained zipper. My head falls back against the couch headrest, but I keep my eyes locked on her. I’m breathing so heavily. I slip my thumb under her skirt, touching the warm, pulsing area in the center of her, only separated from it by her sheer black tights.
Her lips part, a small breath leaving her as I rub my thumb in a circle. My other palm holds her hip, coaxing her to roll over the hard length of me again, and she gifts me with a near-imperceptible whine.
The corner of my lips quirks into a smile, and very subtly, so does hers.
She dips her finger into the loop of my belt, slipping it through its hold and tugging to unhook it. The rattle of the buckle echoes through the quiet room, clanging as she guides the leather through.
I’ve wanted this for so long. Maybe as long as I’ve known her—as far back as noticing the absence of that ring on her fourth finger. Or maybe the first time our eyes crashed together back in Seattle.
I manage a half laugh at the thought and shake my head.
“God, I’d like to rip your beautiful clothes off.”
She gives me the most wicked grin. All for me.
“Would you?” she asks, half inquiry, half challenge.
“Would I?” I mock, bending up to kiss between her breasts, biting the velvet between my teeth and pulling the neckline of her dress lower.
I raise my eyebrows at her, peering up through my lashes. A breathy exhale leaves her. I place my thumb into the crease of her thighs, finding a taut section of the tights and tugging it toward me. It only takes a moment for the fabric to stretch, rip, and allow my finger through to the other side. She gasps.
“I would have double-checked whether you wanted to lose these, but …” My words trail off as I dip a few fingers into the new rip and tug, threads snapping and unstitching as the center of her tights is torn apart under my palm. “I’ll buy you more.”
Through the open rip is dark red satin. I murmur her name under my breath.
“Michelle, Michelle, Michelle …” I repeat low, as if I’m admonishing her for being so indiscreet.
My knuckles greedily trace along the lacy hem as she fiddles her fingers into the button of my jeans, sliding it through the slit, then tugging down my zipper. I’m practically busting through my boxers when she runs her beautifully painted nails over the outside of the fabric. They’re a mossy green today, and I want to see them everywhere.
My body tenses when she slides her hand into the slit of my boxers. My breath catches. I’ve never slept with anyone except Tracy, and the fact that I’m nervous at all is so ridiculous. I let out an exasperated laugh.
As if reading my mind, Michelle whispers, “Cliff.”
My head jerks up to meet her gaze.
Her stare feels like being dunked into warm water after so long in the cold. My nerves are almost shocked before melting, dissipating down my chest and to my hands. My palm winds up her neck and behind her head, burying my fingers in her hair.