He shifts our kiss, holds my locks back, presses his lips to me. To my face, my throat, my collarbone. Ripping, popping seams, he gathers what’s left of his shirt in his fist.

“Emma, I need…to feel…to feel you.”

I make a move, stretch up, yank at his clothes. His shirt peels most of the way off, but he holds me tighter yet. Relinquishes his grasp only when I can’t suppress a giggle at the catch-22 of it all. He begins to laugh, too, but the sound catches in his throat when I have my camisole halfway over my head. Once it’s completely off, I feel my hair spill down over my bare back and exposed chest. Reflexively, my hands cross over my breasts. His eyes narrow slightly, and he shakes his head once, slowly. He sits up and gently lowers first one of my arms, kissing its wrist as he displaces it, and then the other.

Never breaking the gaze we share, he reaches down and removes his shirt, making it as thin as possible before it slips over his head and lands in a distant corner. I grip his arm, trace the indentation where his shoulder and bicep meet.

Both his hands up my sides, thumbs pad under the swell of my breasts. Cups one. Rubs across. Tensing. Teasing. Taut.

Then his other arm slides around, draws me close to him. Close. Presses me into his chest, infuses.

His touch is no longer tentative; he blazes a trail.

Soft kisses along my neck are now nibbles, nearly bites along my collarbone.

Licks salt and skin between kisses. My fingers through his hair. He explores me. Again. More. Even when I think he knows all of me, he finds more. A spot. A pulse. A place that makes me quake, quiver.

Stealing moments, helter-skelter, whenever I can find my mind, I curve and kiss his forehead, the corners of his mouth, and the slight saltiness of sweat. Dew on breaking Christmas morn.

Of their own accord, my hands tug and pull his waistband. He notes my intent, breaks away from our embrace. Rests his head on my chest, panting and watching me work them down. Rise and fall, his chest heaves. He nods, head lowered. Some silent pact with himself, some secret I still yearn to know, wish to learn.

A monumental shift in our positions. He finishes removing his pants, leaves me for a moment. Bereft. I never knew its real meaning before. Then he’s down beside me. I can feel my hair splayed out around me. Slowly, he combs the already tangled ends out with his fingers. Reverent. Continues to kiss me, forever kissing me. He is braced on a single forearm, moves his touch from my hair, to my face, and down. Draws a line along my body, pausing. Pauses briefly over my heart. He presses his palm flat there. Bends. Places open lips there, on the space that drums below him, that might now have fulfilled its dual purpose in life.

Yeah, well, open my envelope and call me a Hallmark card. He already said I gave the very best…

The rough of his hand slips lower, then lower. I cannot stop, don’t want to stop my reactions. Hips rise. Plunging my hands into his hair. He slides a finger under lace, past the band of my panties.

I know if I shift ever so slightly I will be able to feel his erection, pretty much ride it. But he is trying to be gentlemanly about it. How very sweet.

But we will have none of that. None of that, I say.

It is touching…but I want to touch him.

His fingers skim the near flat of my stomach as he approaches…me. His focus on our kisses falters for the first time; while he continues to press his lips to mine, a greater portion of his attention is clearly elsewhere. As is mine. For, while he had been successful in keeping the physical evidence of his arousal somewhat discreet, there just is no disguising my excitement.

At this point, I’m pretty much a Slip ’N Slide. Like, a Slip ’N Slide with Wesson oil and the hot on full blast. Wheeeeee.

He grips the edges of the fabric, drags it down my thighs and legs. My flesh contracts where the fabric leaves a wet trail along my inner thighs. I feel my breathing still as I await his reaction to the effect he’s had on me. My panties find their way onto the floor, and Alaric wraps one arm around me at the waist and the other around my shoulders.

His face buried in my neck, he continues to cradle me within one arm, the other drifts. Glides.

Fingers play along my hip. Thigh. There.

A gasp. Harsh and low. Resounding below my ear. Moment of stillness, and he stills momentarily, then his deep moan into the hollow of my neck makes my thighs clench together over his hand.

“My God, Emma,” he rasps. Single finger slips inside. “You are killing me, lady.”

Bite back a moan. Fight back all sounds, all words, not trusting what telltales may escape. Or shocking compositions of curse words. Like Beethoven found a late-life penchant for salacious symphonies. Alaric’s been so composed, worshipful, while I was on the verge of shouting some incredibly vulgar things. He must notice what I’m doing, because he gently pulls my bottom lip from between my teeth with his own. Half suck, half bite. Watches my reaction through hooded lids.

“No, Emma, don’t hold back.” Throaty rasp. “Let me know how I make you feel.” Then he slides a second finger. Stretch. I moan.

He curls them in me, searching.

My hands cling, dig. Fix to the contours of his back, then downward, and around to trace the V that has called out to me for so long.

He finds the spot. Brushes. Strokes. Then assaults. Crushes my lips.

Unable to aim. Almost on his lips. Kiss anything, all that I can find. Shout against him. Sounds, not words. The open ache of vowel sounds. No language known to man or beast.

Fall back together. Tangled arms. Foggy, I hear murmurs. Soft reassurances in my ear. Missing most of it in the thunderous blood rushing around my system.

“Always you. Only you.”

My treacherous, trembling hand fumbles its way. Close him in my palm. Brush the tip. He hisses. Thick. He’s wet, too. Coats my fingers. His hips move forward into my hand, and he’s panting.

I wrap my leg around his hip, tucking my ankle against the point where his thigh meets his perfect ass, and encourage him to move over top of me. Which he does, then halts. His weight rests on his forearms, hands on either side of my face. His eyes dance…and since it is Christmas, I will allow the comparison to Fred Astaire, because I’m my usual Ginger Rogers, doing my dance in high heels.

Heat radiates from him. Near me, not entering me. He shakes above me, apparently awaiting some unknown cue.

I’m too busy with my turn kissing his throat, his shoulders, any part of him I can reach. A shadow of dark hair below his chin calls out to me; I swirl my tongue, roughness runs under my tongue, and draw his Adam’s apple into my mouth in a long suck.

“Christ.”

He speaks, and my suction breaks with the movement. He bends and curves over the top of me, bringing my nipple between his lips, pulling at it, drawing it deeply into his mouth. He moves, repeats.

Lick, and touch, and draw long breaths. Pull back, survey his landscape. Look for something more. More connection, as if I need another sense to take him in. So I want to give him the single one left: hearing.

The problem is, I don’t know what exactly to say.

The high ceiling is invisible in the current light, only acoustics of reverberated gasps bounce back down upon us. In a room already filled with our soft moans, he needs words.

In this moment, I recognize my power. Because, for once, I can say how I feel without reservation. He needs to know, and I need to tell him. Where earlier words had seemed trite, in this space and time I accept that they can, they will, they must—must—make everything right. I conjure strength and force myself to break away and speak.

“You are who I’m meant for.”

Lowest groan. Eyes close. Breath holds. Touch lips. Tremor. Enter. Lightning strike.