Pinpoint (Point #4) (12 page)

Oscar ignores my request, dipping down as he licks a puckered nipple. He nips the point, and I cry out. I place my hands on his shoulders, unable to hold myself up. Oscar stands straight, noting my inability to balance.

Suddenly, he lifts me a few inches off the ground. We’re kissing again, his arms bound tightly around my waist as he walks me backward until my calves hit the foot of the bed. On some level, I know I should be nervous. This is a
momentous occasion in my sheltered life. But I am exhilarated.

Oscar releases me long enough to tug off his shirt. He gives me almost no time to marvel in the flat planes of his chest, and the lean muscles of his neck, shoulders, and arms. A moment later, his jeans and belt disappear, and he’s stalking toward me. He collects me into his arms again, his flesh warm to the touch. We tumble backward onto the bed, and I can’t hold back my giggle.

“For a graceful man, that wasn’t very suave,” I tease.

Oscar’s response is a mock growl, and then he kisses the line of my jaw and down the curve of my neck. To my surprise, his fingers dance around my ribs, tickling me until I’m laughing in earnest.

“Stop, stop!” I wheeze, twisting my body left and right to escape.

“That’s what you get for mocking me.” Oscar hovers above me, eyes twinkling with mirth. I can’t help myself from touching his face. The pad of my thumb glides along the length of his jaw, tracing his upper lip.

“You are so handsome.”

All movements cease. Did he hear what I really meant?
You are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. You are the man I want to give myself to.

His jaw tics, and for the briefest moment, his eyes close. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, Oscar sweeps downward to kiss me. I move to slip my fingers through his thick hair, pulling him closer. Oscar drifts his pointer and middle finger in the valley between my breasts, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. His fingers circle my navel, and I feel myself start to tremble. Arousal gathers in my center, slithering through my body and intoxicating my senses.

I am drunk off Oscar.

When his hand slips underneath the waistband of my skirt, I gasp and involuntarily tense. Oscar pauses, lifting his head from mine. His brow furrows when looks at me. “All right?” His voice is rough, raspy, on the verge of losing control.

“Yes.” The insistence in my voice is more for me than for him, and I force my body to relax into the mattress. Then I reach up to slip my fingers through his hair again and pull his face to mine.

His fingers continue their journey, slipping between my thighs. My body quivers with anticipation, trembling with his teasing play. I gasp into his mouth when his fingers enter my body, writhing under him. The sensations are completely unfamiliar. Shocking. Jolts course through my body. Masterfully, he strokes me in a way that takes me higher and higher.

“Christ. You are gorgeous.” He says the words roughly against my lips. The growly rumble of his voice heightens my awareness. If possible, it arouses me more. Despite the newness of it all and the strangeness of a having a man touch me this intimately, I’m not afraid or uncomfortable. He’s stolen all my reservations and replaced them with sensual awareness. A rush. Empowerment. Electricity racing through me.

And then he sends me straight into the sky, a shot of euphoria bursting from my center.

I am hovering over the scene. Floating in the aftermath of the most sensational, indulgent moment of my life. I sense Oscar moving around, and I blink back into the reality of the moment. He presses a warm kiss to my throat, shifts down my body, and then slides my skirt and panties off. Oscar tosses them aside and sheds himself of his own boxers unashamedly. Too busy tracing the lines of his body with my gaze, I hardly notice that I am nude too. Bathed in the moonlight, I am able to get a better look at this man. Handsome doesn’t do Oscar justice. Stunning. Cut from marble.

“My God, are you sure you’re a chef?” I blurt.

Oscar pauses where he stands by the bedside table, holding a square packet of foil. His lips pull upward. “Why do you ask, Iris?”

“No chef I know has such a defined body. Usually, they’re pudgy around the middle.”

Oscar chuckles as he prowls toward me, dropping one knee next to me on the mattress. “I’m pleased you think so.” With a decisive rip, the condom emerges from its wrapper. Oscar sheaths himself easily, a reminder that he is no stranger to making love to a woman. I ignore the reminder firmly. I am in the here and now.

Oscar braces a hand on one side of my body, balancing himself there as he nudges into my opening. I bite back a yelp.

No.
My instantaneous reaction is to shove him away. The tender flesh stretches painfully to accommodate him. But I want this. I want him. My mind wages a battle against my body. I know that I need to suffer through the pain this one time, and it won’t hurt again. I can do this.

“You’re so tight.” Oscar’s lips are at my ear. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Just—just go slow,” I whisper back through gritted teeth.

“Okay, baby.” The term of endearment momentarily distracts me from the pain. It allows me to realize I am clenching my body in distress. I release my wound muscles and skim my nails along Oscar’s back until I am holding him behind his shoulders.

When he starts to move inside me, the sensation makes me want to weep. My fingernails dig into the muscles of his back, holding him tight.

And then, with more movement, the pain ebbs away. Pleasure replaces the unpleasantness, and I actually hear myself whimper in indulgence. Then I recognize Oscar’s own moans. He thrusts into me with force. I want
more.
Lifting my legs, I twine them around his lower back, urging him closer.

“You feel fucking amazing. Warm. Tight.” Oscar places his hands on either side of my head, his thrusts growing rough, animalistic. The curse word floats in one ear and out the other. There’s no reason to be uptight about foolish things like swearing. I wouldn’t change a thing about this man.

The lingering pain is nearly gone, replaced by an immense fullness and a building pressure. Digging my nails deeper into Oscar’s skin, I cling to him. Never has anything felt this right. Our bodies together.

“Open your eyes, Iris.” I didn’t realize I’d closed them until this moment. I flick my lids open and find Oscar’s brown gaze boring into me. The electricity constantly surrounding us crackles with desire. For a split second, I see more than lust in him—a flicker of sentiment that makes my heart skip in its already spirited beat.

This is what I’ve been waiting for.

Inexplicably, Oscar’s control evaporates. He becomes frantic, pressing into me with fervor. Then his eyes shut and the moment between us disappears. He must be close to the release I experienced. Only that would drive him this wild. All of my muscles clench around him, wanting to be as close as physically and emotionally possible during this moment. A deep groan breaks for from his chest. Then he cries my name out wildly. Something inside me soars at the way he says
Iris;
as though he’s been grasping for me all his life and has finally reached me.

Oscar’s movements slow, and then all of his weight lowers from its taut position above to settle on me.

“Iris, Iris,” he murmurs, squeezing me tight. Each time he says my name, another burst of heat skitters through my chest.

My legs are still twined around his body, pinning him close.

“Has it ever been like that for you?” he rasps.

I almost laugh. Oscar misses my visceral response because he is too busy curling against me. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest soothe my racing heartbeat. Peacefulness replaces the intense adrenaline.

“No,” I finally say softly.

Nothing has ever been like this for me. I feel close to him—closer than I’ve ever felt to anyone. I don’t want this moment to end, but then I remember that other moments will follow this one. We have all the time in the world for lovemaking and dinners and conversation and . . . and everything.

Oscar uses the bed as leverage to push himself up and slowly out of my body. He doesn’t say anything to me, leaving me lying on the bed to watch him make his way to the bathroom. I stare at the ceiling, breathing deeply and taking an assessment of my physical condition. Nothing overtly hurts, though I am tender in a new sort of way. I push myself up on my bent elbows and watch Oscar wash his hands and then leisurely stroll into the bedroom.

He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest. “You look pleased with yourself.”

I fall back onto the mattress, cover my face with my hands, and try to block out my giggles. “Stop reading my emotions.”

Fingers encircle my right ankle and Oscar slides me closer to him. “Do you have a suggestion of something else we can do with our time?”

When the mattress dips adjusting to Oscar’s weight, I drop my hands to my sides. Suddenly, I’m tongue-tied. Oscar chuckles, untroubled by my shyness. “I’ve got something in mind.”

And then I don’t have to think about a thing.

Sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows is responsible for waking me the next morning. The warm rays wrap me in a pleasant cocoon. Before I blink my eyes open to greet the day, I’m grinning like the cat that got the cream. Oscar was right last night; I am pleased. I took a chance and was rewarded with the most intense, earth-shattering experience of my life. Soreness reminds me of last night’s activities, but it’s nothing horribly uncomfortable. With a smile firmly pasted on my lips, I roll onto my side to find Oscar.

His side of the bed is empty. I stare at the blue sheets in confusion. Then I prick my ears, trying to hear other noises in the house. The bathroom door is wide open, revealing no one inside.

There has to be a logical explanation for this. Don’t get upset.
I want to listen to the calm, reassuring voice in my head, but logic is slowly evaporating. I scramble into a seated position, dragging the sheets with me to cover my body. Propriety seems unnecessary at this point, but my instincts are my instincts. The movement of the bedding causes a ripple effect. I hear a crinkling noise that sounds suspiciously like a piece of paper. A little bit of relief washes through me. He left a note. That’s good.

Iris, Had an early flight to LA. Be well, Oscar.

I think I’m choking. I can’t breathe. My stomach drops, taking my plummeting heart with it.

“Be well,” I murmur aloud. “Bell well?” This time louder. “Be well!” I’m nearly shouting. Blood races through my veins, heating my body. Disbelief and anger throb at all my pulse points.

No. I don’t believe this is happening. This can’t be happening. I thought—he was—he said . . . What Oscar said was he doesn’t do relationships and hasn’t dated in a long time. He never made any promises. He gave me an out when he asked me what I wanted, and I wanted him. Oscar asked me what I wanted at that moment, and I responded with what I wanted for much more than one night. The building anger splinters into debilitating humiliation and shame.

I am everything everyone thinks I am. Innocent and uncultured. Inexperienced and foolish. No wonder Cameron didn’t think it was a good idea for me to date Oscar. He foresaw this pathetic conclusion, and I didn’t listen.

Oh, God.

All of a sudden, I remember every health class I took about human sexuality. I hop out of the bed, still clutching the sheets to my chest like a protective shield. I shove the duvet out of the way, looking everywhere for a sign of our activities.

Nothing.
Thank goodness, I took those horseback riding lessons over the summer when I was a kid. The mussed bed is the only visible sign of what transpired last night and . . . I sigh heavily. Makeup stains smudge the pristine ice-blue pillowcase. That’s what I get for not washing my face before falling asleep.

What is the etiquette in this situation? Do I leave and pretend I didn’t leave a mess behind? Should I wash the pillowcase? I waver back and forth. Okay. The man went to L.A., which is on the other side of the country. He’s long gone, so I have plenty of time to clean off the makeup and escape.

Then what?
A voice that sounds remarkably like my critical father mocks.

I gave away one of the most precious parts of me to a man who wants me to ‘be well.’ My chest aches with my own stupidity. This is what I heard modern hooking up is like—sex and no emotional attachment. I didn’t want to believe it was true. Now, I know with certainty that I am completely uneducated in the ways of modern relationships, and shame courses through me. I’m disappointed in myself, and it physically hurts. Oh, how I am hurting.

As quick as I can, I dress. I make haste in the restroom, washing my face.

I peel off the offending pillowcase and hurry down the stairs in search of the laundry room. With a frantic pace, I rip open the cabinets, seeking some sort of hand soap or cleaning product. Oscar may be a bachelor, but I doubt he keeps this place dust-free without the help of a housekeeper. To my immense relief, I find a stain stick, and I place the case on top of the laundry machine and begin dabbing at the mascara smudges.