More passes and he meets me every time and mumbles half thoughts against my neck, and damn, I want him inside so much it snatches the very breath from my lungs. A hollow fire inside. I tell him this in a ragged whisper, and his breath catches and his arms wrap around my neck as he groans out, low and coarse.

I want to feel every change, swallow every sound, but coals inside me burn white hot, my ears close, and then I’m gone too, saying his name and trying to find air.

When clouded edges finally fade from my sight, I remember where we are. Scant Christmas lights manage to filter in through the back glass. Canon’s shed clothes barricade off ninety percent of it.

Maybe we need to buy some Dramamine. Bet that driver is hella dizzy from circling the block.

11:35 p.m.

*

Car

: Hands folded in my lap.

*

Elevator

: Hand in his.

*

Hall

: Other hand added over his.

*

Room

: Hands everywhere.

MY COAT SLIPS from the hanger and hits the floor. He looks at me as if to say it looks just fine there.

“You feel it, don’t you, Emma? What’s happening? You feel it.”

I nod. Yes. So much I can’t feel anything else.

Streetlights and shadows color the room. We’re near the bedroom. Near the door.

He’s waiting. For me. On me.

I loosen his tie. Feel him swallow below my fingers, breathe beneath my arms.

He’s not moving. Waiting. Baiting.

I look at him and then to my shoulders, tilt my head, silently suggest. Strongly suggest.

His hands slowly roam me. Tentative. I step forward, and his arms go round to meet at the small of my back.

“You wanted me to wear this,” I say as his fingers play at a dress seam. “So…take it off.”

He holds his breath. I can tell because I’m holding mine.

The slow rustle of fabric fills the room. He pulls the zipper, looking down, watching me while each tooth pulls free. His hands slide under and graze my torso, along my sides. He slides it over my shoulders.

I wouldn’t think this would be such a surprise. It was darn cold in that theater. And he was all but wearing my dress right along with me during our fun out in the limo.

But his breath hitches. Silk splashes on the floor.

I’m down to sheer, black thigh-highs and heels.

Okay, the man might pass out.

A panty-less warning might have been prudent. Noted.

His arms wrap around my shoulders. Thumb at the joint, palm around, fingers reach and press my back.

His hands travel down my arms, unhurried, drag. My wrists. Shoulders. Pale flesh inside my arms, almost tickling. Slower at the curve and swell.

I can feel him looking at me. Hard. Hands continue their trek. Soft.

Deliberate, measured, I bring my arms to him, to his shirt. His button’s a puzzle. Hesitant and unfocused, I curse my nerves.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

I don’t remember the buttons being this difficult before. Probably because I tore them free.

Which seems like a genius idea, and I contemplate that method again while I push a fingertip under the rounded edge and thread it through. It’s slow going. Maybe that’s okay.

It is going to take forever at this rate.

I’m still in my heels, closer to his level. He barely bends to watch me, continues to feel me. Warm at my ribs. Heated fingers on my back.

Another button finally gives. Yeah, taking forever.

He breathes, shuddering, watches my progress. Roams me. Waits.

Waiting.

I take on another.

He follows my waist, my hip. The top of my stockings. Fingers dance. At the rim. Palms my ass, traces where thigh meets cheek. Dip and explore. Ready.

And I’m not holding my breath anymore. Not at all. I’m panting. Pants.

Pants. Oh, yeah…his pants. I start pulling at his pants and yanking, and I guess I will be going to the store to buy clothes for him after all because there is a rip that should be sickening, but instead I hear my laugh, a laugh like the sound you make when you see a car wreck and it is the exact opposite of how you feel. I’m frantic, desperate to not let on how very real, really real I’m finding all this.

Because I’m going to make love to him in a moment.

I just sorta realized that.

I start to step out of my shoes, but the change in height from the first movement makes me feel even smaller. I leave them on. He watches as I kick away the dress with my shoes still on.

I step into him. Run my hands down around his open shirt and start it over his shoulders and down.

He watches my chest rise and fall.

“You like?”

Corner of his mouth turns up. He might laugh now.

That will never do.

“Show me.”

And I guess “show me” equates to “prove it” in his book because before I know what’s happening he’s pulled me by my butt and lifted me against him, bent himself to bury his face in my neck, arms encircling and cock—some hard proof right there—running near roughly between my legs. Somehow we get to the bed, and he is backed up against it and still moving and holding and oh-wow-that-is-pretty-fucking-amazing between my legs.

I finish pulling his sleeves down his arms and discover they won’t come off as they’re bunched up at his wrists where I have failed to unbutton the damned cuffs. Ah, screw it. Or him.

I give a shove, and he falls back onto the mattress, shirt under his ass, hands trapped at his sides. Eyes wide, not scared, something else. Something…I don’t know.

I put my thumbs under the edge of my stockings and look down at him to ask if he would like them to stay. His head is raised off the mattress, watching me, gauging me, because this may seem more of a tease than a question—maybe he thinks I will take them off or not as I choose. He’s wrong…I’m watching him for a reaction, to see what he wants. I trace the lace hem. He eyes the shoes, and I’m pretty sure he likes them.

Guess that’s a yes.

Forcing myself to go slowly, counting to ten as I go, I bend at the waist and crawl up the bed. Slow and straight, trying for calm, trying for unruffled.

His eyes on me. Fidgets within his sleeves.

Fidgets until I start to hover over him. Then he stills. Then watches. Then breathes.

Kiss his thighs. Lips to hips. Tongue on shaft, base to tip. His turn to writhe. His fingers dig into the bed at his sides.

His chest raises in short gasps, and I want to touch it, to feel his heat on me. Knees astride and hands at his face, in his hair, I bend and slide the whole of myself against him.

Warm and welcome and…home.

So good it is bad.

Shift and bring my chest to his mouth. He watches me, and I’m not sure what I’m showing him when his lips press and his tongue slips along my breast, seeks and teases. Licks and nips and pulls me in, nearly biting.

He starts to object when I slide away, but my sliding stops. Abruptly. Because I’m there.

There, there.

Oddly enough, right about now I’m wondering about the mechanics of having sex with shoes on. How does that work in practical application? How do you keep from gouging someone with pointy heels, keep from scraping them? I’m already straddled over the expanse of his hips plus the hands that I have managed to trap there, and now there is the distinct possibility that I’m going to hurt him. Taking them off is going to be clumsy and awkward and not at all in-charge-looking, but it turns out all my concern is unwarranted as I feel his hands wrap around my ankles, fingers anchoring me, almost like I have anchored him.

And I feel secure.

I wrap my fingers behind his neck, thumbs circling below his ears. I slide down onto him. Just the head. Up again. Off again. And back. Angle, catch the ridge. And he’s watching me. And I’m watching him.