Chapter Eleven
He led her to his bedroom. It was, like the rest of his house, small but relatively tidy. Most of the room was taken up by his bed, which was flanked by small maple night tables. A tall chest of drawers stood in one corner. Two framed photos of what appeared to be waves crashing against a shoreline of harsh stone formations—Maine or Nova Scotia, Diana would guess—hung on the wall. A pair of sneakers lay near the closet door and a paperback edition of a John Grisham novel sat next to the lamp on one of the night tables, a scrap of paper serving as a bookmark. Diana crossed to the table and lifted the book to read its back cover copy. “Is it any good?”
“I like courtroom dramas,” Nick said. “I’m afraid to get an e-reader. If I had one, I’d probably buy every legal thriller ever written.”
She smiled. “If you had an e-reader, I wouldn’t have known what you were reading.” Every little bit of information she gleaned about Nick was precious. His taste in reading. His lack of discipline when it came to buying books. She could relate to that. She had several hundred books downloaded to her e-reader. It was simply too easy to click the buy button.
Tonight neither she nor Nick would be reading. She lowered the book and shifted her gaze to the bed. It was neatly made, if not quite up to the standards of the Ocean Bluff Inn’s housekeeping staff. The sheets were a dark red, the color of the wine they’d consumed with dinner. The blanket was tan with red and blue lines crisscrossing it.
She would be lying on that blanket soon, on those pillows, having sex with someone who wasn’t Peter for the first time in her life. Was she out of her mind?
If she was, she didn’t care.
She turned to Nick, reaching for him as he reached for her. Together they tumbled onto the soft, plush blanket, lying on their sides facing each other, their heads cushioned by the down pillows, their legs intertwined. Nick kissed her again. He kissed her lower lip, the corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose. He nuzzled her throat, nipped her ear. If Peter had been such an effective kisser, maybe Diana wouldn’t have left him.
No. Even if his kisses could arouse her the way Nick’s did, she would have left him. Even if he touched her the way Nick was touching her, his hands simultaneously gentle and firm, his fingertips grazing her as if he needed to memorize every curve and contour of her body, every rise and hollow, caressing her wrist as if it were as important as her breast, stroking the nape of her neck as if it was as significant as the flare of her hips… She still would have left Peter. She still would have wanted to share this moment, this experience, with no one but Nick.
She touched him as he touched her, gliding her hands along his shoulders, across his ribs, to the buttons of his shirt. Before she could release one button, he was there, flicking the buttons open with impressive speed. He shrugged out of the shirt, tossed it over the side of the bed and then settled back down beside her.
She had expected him to remove her shirt, too, and the rest of her clothing, while he was at it. But he simply continued to caress her through her sweater and her jeans, as if he wanted to give her time to accept where they were heading, and a chance to bring everything to a halt if she chose.
She didn’t need time. She’d made her choice. Pushing herself to sit, she gripped the ribbed edge of her sweater and lifted it up, over her head. Her hair fell around her face in disarray, and Nick tenderly brushed it back.
This isn’t a relationship, she reminded herself. Don’t fall in love. But the gentleness of his touch, his thoughtfulness and his sensitivity about any misgivings she might have made it hard for her not to think of love when she thought of Nick. She didn’t know him that well, but what she knew…oh, yes. She could love him.
Now that she’d removed her sweater, Nick clearly felt he could remove everything else. He reached behind her to flick the clasp of her bra, then stripped off her slacks and panties in one efficient sweep. His jeans went the way of his shirt, sailing over the edge of the bed, and then they were both naked.
He was all muscle and sinew, all strength and grace. His body was so different from Peter’s. Peter kept fit, but his muscles were toned by a personal trainer at an expensive fitness center. Nick looked like someone who had earned his muscles through hard work. He looked like someone who could fight if he had to, and who would win. His biceps, while not bulging, were rock-hard. His chest and abdomen were taut. His legs were a runner’s; as a jogger herself, Diana appreciated the definition of the lean muscles in his calves and thighs. She pictured Nick racing up and down a basketball court, shouting encouragement to his kids. She pictured him swimming in the ocean. She pictured him lifting things, building things, fixing things.
She didn’t have to picture him easing her onto her back, because that was what he doing. His muscles weren’t the only part of him that was rock-hard. He was fully aroused, and when she stroked his erection he groaned, pulled her hand away and kissed her palm. “I’m already there,” he murmured, easing down her body so he could kiss her breasts, her belly, the dampness between her legs.
Her body lurched as his tongue slid over her. Peter had never done this to her, and oh… It felt so good. So indescribably good.
She shuddered, too close to coming. “Stop, Nick, stop…”
He lifted his head. “Much better than vanilla fudge,” he said, making her laugh, helping her to relax. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
He reached across the bed, tugged open a night table drawer, and pulled out a condom. “You still okay?” he asked as he tore open the envelope.
“I’m fine.”
“Let’s see if we can improve on that.” He settled between her legs, his knees nudging her thighs apart, and eased into her. Slow and firm, the heat of him melting her, bathing her, permeating her.
Overwhelming her.
She exploded with his first thrust. Her body throbbed, clung, wrung itself out in pulses so sweet they hurt. She heard herself moan, felt her legs tighten around his hips, lost herself in sensation. He continued to thrust, harder and deeper, stroking her until her body convulsed again, even more powerfully. This time he was with her, gasping, groaning, pulsing his heat into her.
Minutes might have passed. Hours, for all she knew. Days. Eons. Time no longer had meaning. All that mattered was now, this bed, this man. All that mattered was the freedom to love Nick Fiore.
It’s not love, she told herself. But her heart wasn’t listening.