get the chance to make the first move. Which is what is strange. It makes me doubt myself. What if he doesn’t want me anymore? Why has he not put the moves on me? But he did seem to want me the last time we found ourselves on this bed. Perhaps he’s still waiting.
But seriously, haven’t we waited long enough?
I hear the water turn off and I feel my body stand to attention, in anticipation. I hike up the skirt of my slip a little. I want to show him more. I want to show him all of me, but this will have to do for now because I don’t want to come on too strong. I want to be demure. Well, as demure as I can be when all I want is him all over me…naked preferably.
He saunters out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his hips, another one in his hand, rubbing at his head, drying his crazy curly locks. He smiles as he makes his way out.
I really don’t think he was trying to turn me on. He was really just having a shower.
Damn him.
I sit up straight on the bed. “Gabe,” I call out, my heart hammering in my chest.
A beat later, he’s at my doorway again. For a second or two, I try to devise a strategy. Do I go with the direct approach and ask him to come and fuck me?
Can’t quite do that.
I blow out a breath and tilt my head in a come-hither pose. But I don’t think I’m very good at come-hither poses because he just cocks his head and looks at me weird.
I am so not good at this.
“Do you want to talk?” I venture with a little smile.
A slow grin stretches across his face. Yes. He knows me well. He knows what I want. I can see it in his expression, in his playful smile.
And I know he’s going to make me work for it. This is a side of Gabe I don’t get to see often, playing hard to get looks so good on him. I’d kick him if I didn’t want him so much.
He ventures a step or two into the bedroom. “What would you like to talk about?” he asks, that mischievous smile still plastered all over his face.
“Uh,” I stammer a bit, struggling to come up with a subject of conversation. “Uh… faucets. We should discuss faucets.”
His face breaks into a smile as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, close, close enough to tease. “Sure.”
My gaze lingers on the inked curves of his shoulder and travels to the silver chain and the cross falling on his chest. “Uh…what kind were you thinking of?”
He scratches his week-old beard. “Chrome or brushed nickel?” he asks as he leans back on his arms. His arm brushes against my leg. Just.
“Nickel is nice,” I say, pulling my knees up, making my slip ride up higher…accidently…on purpose.
His gaze lingers under my slip. I know he can see my panties. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Um...” he stammers, “brushed nickel is uh… sleek…cool. Chrome is more…” he pauses to catch his breath, “…traditional. I like chrome and how it reflects like…”
I smile. “Like a mirror?”
He clears his throat, his gaze still on my panties. “Exactly.”
I twirl a lock of my hair and tilt my head. “And there’s also black.”
“Uh…” he says absent-mindedly. “There’s that.”
I slip a hand under my slip, the material silky on my hand. “Do you want something sleek and straight, modern?” I ask, pulling at my panties. “Or something curvy?”
He swallows. Hard. “Definitely something curvy.”
I pull the pink cotton panties over my knees, ever so slowly. “Then it’s decided, something curvy and chrome, traditional.”
His gaze meets mine and it’s searing. “Traditional,” he echoes.
I finally pull the panties over my feet and shoot him a smile.
He stares at me, deadly serious, for what seems like an eternity before he whispers, “Come here.”
I slither up to him and he pulls my face to his. As soon as my lips hit his, I can feel it in my sex. It’s always been like this with him. It’s like there’s a super-highway straight from his kiss to the deepest part of me, the part that wants him inside me. I feel the desire throbbing deep.
A groan escapes at the edges of his kiss. I can tell he wants me as much as I want him. And I can tell he’s desperately trying to rein himself in, control himself.