Star Dust (15 page)

They kissed until her concerns dispersed. The only thoughts she had now were
yes
. And
again please
. And
just like that
.

They’d stumbled over to an ancient sofa against the back wall. It was covered in bumpy brown, white, and blue plaid wool. She hadn’t seen all of his house, but this piece didn’t fit. Nobody would photograph it for a magazine.

It reminded her of him, actually. Strong. Old fashioned. At odds with its surroundings. But at the moment when he was toppling her onto it, the sofa was more than fine. It was soft—well, soft enough—and flat, which was all she cared about.

Kit found the first snap on her dress and released it. Anne-Marie exhaled. Then he freed the next and the next. Her neckline resisted and then yielded a few inches. With a grateful mumble, he eased her dress straps down, leaving her slip exposed.

She fought her impulse to cross her arms over her chest, to hide herself from his gaze. Only the fact that her dress kept her confined stopped her. Well, and perhaps the ravenous look on his face.

His eyes shifted back to her face and he brushed some of her hair out of the way. “I want to see you. Is that okay?”

It was—but he was right: she was hesitant. Shy. Unlike herself. Doug had been kind. Sweet, even. But most of her experience was in pitch-dark rooms late at night. They’d shared clothed fumbles, discreet and colorless.

Nothing about Kit was either.

She looked away, shut her eyes, but that was worse. It made her more aware of his body wedged between her thighs, warm and heavy and pulsing.

“It’s fine,” she whispered.

“Honey, we’re going to go so slow.”

She cracked an eye. “Not too slow?”

He didn’t answer, not with words anyway. He bit her. Her slip and brassiere were in the way, but nonetheless, his teeth closed over her nipple. She shivered.

He released her and then inhaled deeply. “We’ll go exactly the right speed.”

How like a pilot! But before she could answer, he snaked a hand behind her back and unhooked her brassiere. He pulled her dress down around her waist and then dragged her brassiere straps down her arms. When he eased it out of her slip, her nipples rubbed against the silk and she trembled.

“Beautiful.”

Beautiful
was such a heavy word, and one that she’d never liked. She wasn’t beautiful. At her best, she was pretty, and often not even that. It was the wrong word and it made her doubt him and this moment.

She wriggled in her slip and attempted to parry. “A dollar twenty-five at Ward’s.”

He chuckled, but the mirth faded, replaced by something hotter. He ducked his head and sucked her into his mouth. Through the fabric, she could feel his tongue lapping at her nipple. It pebbled instantly and she sighed. He made a sound of approval and kept up his efforts.

When she was panting, he lifted his head and cupped her breast. He molded it, kneaded it, weighed one against the other.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, but she didn’t convince even herself. The breathiness undercut the sarcasm.

He shrugged without any apology, and then he reapplied his mouth.

She arched under him and stretched her arms over her head. She felt taut, strung out, as if only his body kept her anchored. The fabric of the couch raised goose bumps up her arms. He braced an arm across hers and at last tugged her slip down her body, baring her breasts to him.

He muttered an appreciative curse and she pulled against his hold.

He shook his head. “Oh no, I like you like this.”

His smile was hungry and she wriggled under it, resisting his grip with some force. He didn’t give an inch, but in seriousness she really needed him to turn off the lamp. She had the body of a woman who’d nursed two children. She hadn’t known perky in years.

Before she could ask for it, he lowered his head and her eyes snapped shut. She couldn’t watch him—it distracted from feeling. The man had a very talented tongue.

She gave herself over to the sensation. She would go wherever he wanted to take her, lights or not. She moved under him. She was jittery. She was needy. Her hips rocked against him, asking for things she couldn’t voice. She dug her fingers into his forearm.

He released her arms and began shimmying her slip and dress off. She linked eyes with him and watched him uncover her very real mother’s body. She raised her bottom and with a final tug from Kit on her clothing, she was nude. He tossed her clothes aside and stared. His gaze swept over her, top to bottom and bottom to top. He exhaled and put a finger to her chin, tipping her face toward him.

And somehow this was the most intimate bit of all.

He hadn’t looked away from her eyes, though a lust-glazed grin settled over his features. She could feel herself coloring everywhere. She grew cold—the kind that burned.

“Have a thing for freckles?” As all jokes did, it revealed the truth.

But Kit didn’t bite. Not even in the pleasant way. Not looking away, he trailed a finger down her arm and then across her belly.

“Constellations tell a story. Lines connecting points, making a picture. Your freckles do too. Your body does. Anne-Marie, I like your story.”

He didn’t look away. He didn’t even blink. He meant it. Every word. And looking in his eyes, she felt it.

She nearly shook with need.
 

“Make love to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ever accommodating, he scooped her up and headed across the house. Never mind that she wasn’t wearing a stitch and he looked like he’d come from work.

She yelped and threw her arms around his neck. “Where are we going?”

“To my bed.”

Well then. That sounded promising. He took her down a hallway. She spied a gold bathroom through one door. He boosted her up on his shoulder while he fumbled with another door.

“I like that painting,” she remarked, pointing at a canvas covered with orange and brown squares. “It’s very… modern.”

“I’ll give you the full tour in a—well, in a bit.”

He managed to get the door open and he carried her into the dark. He deposited her on a bed the size of Alaska, shooed Bucky out, and closed the door. Then he stalked across the room and flicked on a lamp. His eyes were molten with need.

He reached for the hem of his polo shirt and dragged it over his head. That chest that had ensorcelled her from the first day was even more intriguing now that she knew she could touch it. All those muscles dusted lightly with golden hair.

He was the beautiful one.

When she looked back at his face, he was laughing.

“From now on, I’m taking off my shirt first,” he said.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. You get distracted and forget to be self-conscious.”

She rolled onto her side. “Let’s see if it works with your pants too.”

It was a forward thing to say. God, it was forward. But she was naked in the man’s bed—she could be forward.

Thankfully, Kit didn’t seem bothered. He just reached for his belt. He unhooked it, then released the button on his trousers, and finally slid them and his briefs off.

The thunderstruck thing worked for that, too—for his, uh, member. She opened her mouth and then closed it. Wow.

He crawled onto the bed and over her. “Honey, that’s the first time I’ve seen you speechless.”

She reached down and ran her fingers over him. Soft skin over glass—so, so many inches of those contrasts. And so close to her. She linked her fingers around him and repeated the motion as he hissed.

“I may have underestimated you,” she whispered.

“Realizing that just now?”

He flexed his arms and pushed her down onto the bed. He rubbed his face over her stomach, pulled back, and blew. She shook under the thin, cold stream of air. It was hot and cold. Dark and light. It was him.

“I can’t take much more of this. I’m going to start begging.”

“Do.”

She didn’t want to think about how he’d gotten good at this. About how he knew where to touch and where to kiss and where to… jeez, what was he doing now? She’d think about all of that tomorrow.

“Please.” Her voice was thick and husky.

Kit kissed her instep. Trailed a finger down the length of her foot. And shook his head.

“Please.” Her plea was stronger now, and more vulnerable. Strong in its vulnerability, maybe.

He loomed over her and nipped at her throat. His fingers dove into her hair, held her in place while he kissed her deep and wet and long.

She broke from him. “Please, now, please.”

He smiled down at her, the light catching on his hair. “You beg so nicely you make me want to not give in.”

She pushed up onto her elbows. “So help me, I will leave.”

“We can’t have that.”

He was up in a flash and fumbling in a drawer. What was he doing? Oh, right! Practicalities. His back was to her, a work of art. He’d found protection and was rolling it in place, all his defined muscles moving in sync. His body was infinitely interesting.

When he turned, a condom was in place. He crawled over her and paused.

“I… you…” He trailed off and kissed her—and that was always acceptable.

When he finally pushed into her, she almost screamed in relief. She had never been so ready. Or maybe it had just never been with Kit before.

He filled her up until there wasn’t room for anything else, scarcely for breath or thought.

He rolled those hips—those capable hips that were half responsible for her ending up here—and she could only clutch his back and rise to meet him. He nipped at her neck and murmured warm words into her ear.

“So close, so close,” was all she could manage in response.

Then it all dissolved. She gasped his name, lost herself to the tingling relief that she’d needed for a long time. Since she’d first seen him at least, but probably well before that.

He was still pumping into her in firm strokes. She hitched her legs around him, opening herself up. She scored her nails down his spine and watched as his own release claimed him. He shuddered and exhaled.

They stayed like that for a long time, breathing hard. Relaxed and still tense at once. Then he opened his eyes and beamed at her. He’d been inside her—still was, as a matter of fact—but this felt more secret, more shared, than the intercourse had been.

He reached up and began playing with her curls.

“I have fantasies about your hair,” he said at last. “It’s… you’re… beautiful.”

And there was that word again.

All she said was, “Thank you. You’re…” He was so many things. Beautiful, yes, but also kind. And desirable. And famous. And thoughtful. So many things that even now, even after what they’d shared, she couldn’t acknowledge.

She went with, “Heavy.”

He rolled off her with a chuckle. He trailed his fingers down her leg and finally, regretfully, released her ankle with a squeeze as he stood.

She watched him wrap the condom in a tissue and fumble for his briefs.

“You want that tour now?”

“Yes, please.”

There was nothing less romantic than houses. Surely paintings and lamps would put them back on friendly terms.

“Kit! Kit!”

Kit paused at his front door at Freddie’s bright, high summons. In a few short years, that brightness might begin to crack as a deeper, more mature voice broke through.

He turned to see Freddie running toward him, Lisa close behind, Bucky chasing the both of them. They looked like they were rushing to greet him from a long day’s work—like they might rush toward a father.

He swallowed hard. “Freddie! Lisa!” He put on his astronaut’s smile. “What are you two up to?”

Where’s your mother?
he started to ask, but he swallowed it because he wasn’t certain he wanted to see Anne-Marie right now.

No, that wasn’t true. He did want to see her. He just didn’t want her children to watch him try to navigate their first meeting after a night of incredible sex.

“Mom told us to go outside and stop bothering her while she was making dinner,” Lisa answered. “We were throwing the ball for Bucky.”

“What did you do today?” Freddie demanded.

“Did you take any test runs?” Lisa put in.

He held up his hands as he laughed. “Paperwork. I mostly did paperwork.” Their groans made him laugh even harder. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not all rockets and glamour.”

“Hey! You should come have dinner with us,” Freddie shouted.

Kit took a step back, his smile dropping. “I don’t know—your mom wasn’t expecting me. I can’t just invite myself.”

They’d agreed to an affair. Not dating. Coming to dinner, even if her kids had invited him—that might be too much intimacy for Anne-Marie. And if the press got wind of it…

“We’re inviting you,” Lisa said. She caught up his hand. “Come on. Mom always makes too much food and then we have to have leftovers.”

Freddie grabbed his other hand. “Yeah, we hate leftovers. Please, please, please.”

He wanted to. He wanted to see Anne-Marie, to know whether her eyes would light up or if she’d look away. And if she looked away, he hoped at least that her cheeks would blaze. But he shouldn’t.