She let out a cry as his head stretched her. His green eyes flicked up to meet her gaze in the steamy mirror, then back down. With a long, quiet groan of pleasure, he eased the ridge of his head through her opening and buried himself inside her.
In this position, the feeling was so intense that she tried to wiggle away from him, down, forward, anywhere. He slapped his hands to her bu**ocks and held her still as he began to pump rhythmically into her. His dick pressed along the front wall of her vagina and found her G-spot, she knew, because now she felt her face flush hotter and the hair on her arms stand up. A few more strokes and she fell into a black abyss.
She spasmed around his solid member, aching for him to pull out, and still he pumped into her. Bending over her to whisper closer to her ear, he said, “You look so sweet when you come, Sarah. I’ll bet you can come again for me.”
She wasn’t so sure. Trying to work past her discomfort, she raised herself on her tiptoes to give him a slightly more open angle, and she squeezed herself around him.
He gasped sharply, slapped both hands to her ass, gripped her hips hard as he impaled her. Her discomfort vanished, replaced by a desire for him to get as far as he could inside her, empty himself into her. Every thought centered around one spot, the place where he joined with her.
“Quentin,” she cried as she felt herself rising again. This time they came together, his hardest thrusts timing perfectly with her loss of control.
And then, as her orgasm trailed away but he still pumped himself hard inside her, the tiniest sense of panic grew in her belly. She watched his reflection making love to her, taking up a huge part of her mirror. This was a famous singer, one of the spoiled stars she’d been sent to whip into shape, and he had f**ked her.
He placed one hot hand on her lower back, where her tramp stamp would be if she really were a tramp—which she was beginning to have some second thoughts about. “My God, Sarah,” he said, “could you get any hotter?” He took a long, steadying breath that ended in a small laugh. “I need to lie down for a minute. How about you?”
“Uh.” She was speechless.
He helped her up from the counter, then rubbed her dry with the towel that had cushioned her. He dried himself while she dialed the shower off. Then he led her by the hand through the apartment, back to her bed. The afternoon light filtering through the window had tired and softened as they slid into the sheets, facing each other.
He put his hand on her hip and closed his eyes.
She put her hand on his chest and closed her eyes.
She rested. Blanked. It felt like a long time, but glancing at the beside clock, she saw only a quarter hour had passed when she woke and saw he was watching her.
His hand stroked her hip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You won’t be able to wear that bikini for a few days. This is going to bruise.”
“It was worth it.” The panic rose inside her again, but she knew her words were true. Whatever the consequences of this day with him, she would cherish the memory.
“You don’t want me to get too close,” he whispered. “You still don’t want me to tell you.”
Tell me what? cried Sarah, but she knew. She said, “No.”
“But we done done it, like you said,” he protested, “and we might as well enjoy it for the rest of the day.” Now his hand trailed from her belly up to her face, and his fingers traced her hairline. “You are so beautiful.” He seemed to be staring at her, studying her genuinely. “Have I ever told you that I really like your hair?”
She smiled.
“See,” he said, running his fingers down the damp strands, “like that, when it falls around your face. It could be a brown strand. It could be blond. It could be pink. It’s different, unpredictable.” He chuckled. “You think I sound like an idiot, like every other man . . . ”
He was about to say in love. She helped him. “Making love,” she suggested, and laughed lightly. “Declarations of a woman’s beauty never sound idiotic. They always sound good.”
He gazed at her seriously for a moment. Then he seemed to realize that it was no use. He laughed again. “Speaking of good,” he said, and she thought he would make a comment about the excellent sex. “How about some naked Indian food?”
At sunset, they sat outside on her balcony, watching the lights of traffic. Quentin wore his boxers, Sarah a tank top and pajama pants. They looked like two people who’d just had long, hot sex over and over, and she loved it. She wished they could have hot sex and then flaunt the fact to her neighbors every evening, not just this one.
They swayed slowly on the porch swing. When Harold had lived here with her, he’d told her the swing couldn’t be hung here. She had showed him how it could be hung. He had still refused to help her, saying it was stupid to hang a Southern-style porch swing on a New York City balcony. She’d called Tom to help her.
She was glad she had. And she was glad this part of her apartment wasn’t tainted by the hand of Harold, so she could enjoy it with Quentin. Though she had to say that the hand of Harold was quickly fading. It had vanished from her kitchen. And her bathroom. And her bed.
She settled her head back against Quentin’s solid chest. “That was so good,” she said.
“The food or the sex?” he asked. The low notes of his voice vibrated through her body and gave her chills.
“Both,” she said.
“What was your favorite?”
“The aloo gobi,” she said. “And that time between the chutney and the murg saagwala, when you had me turned around backward—”
“Oh yeah,” he said knowingly. “That was good aloo gobi.”
She hit his chest playfully, realizing as she did that this was exactly the move Erin was accustomed to executing on Owen. Shut up, Erin. Sarah asked, “What was your favorite?”
“This is my favorite. Sitting here with you, feeling like you’re mine, like I’ve marked you as mine. I don’t know where this caveman thing is coming from.” He bent toward her and ran his hand along his eyebrow. “Is my brow ridge growing?”
What about Erin? she wanted to ask. She had a feeling this would not work out, but she didn’t want to discuss it right now. She suspected this was all she would get, and she didn’t want to ruin it.
She reached out one fingertip to trace one dark eyebrow, then the other. While he smiled and closed his eyes, she traced down his straight nose to his expressive lips and his square jaw, then up his cheek and into the tangled waves of his hair.