Page 47 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

He put one big hand under her buttocks to hold her in place. The other hand was doing remarkable things to her other breast.

The boy—man—must have incredible strength. He certainly was a master multitasker. She could only think, WOW! Then, Please don’t let me have said that out loud.

The throbbing in her breasts moved lower and she pressed herself against his belly to relieve the ache. But wait. Her legs had somehow wrapped themselves around his hips. And that now-vulnerable part of her, protected by a mere scrap of silk, was undulating against his hardness. Which caused her inner muscles to start slow-pulsing with the start of an orgasm. With a gasp of surprise, she began keening in counterpoint to the rise and fall of her spasms, each guttural sound rising in pitch. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!” An orgasm. Then a whimpering trail of smaller sighs, “Oooooooooh!”

She wasn’t sure how it happened, but they were in her bedroom, where he’d presumably carried her. The low light from a bedside lamp gave a golden hue to the room, which was thankfully cool from the window air conditioner. Thankfully, because she was raging hot, every inch of her skin feeling the heat of Merrill’s scrutiny as he set her in the middle of the room and removed the rest of her dress, including her thong. Then, he helped her sit on the edge of the bed where he undid the buckles on her high-heeled sandals.

“Don’t move,” he ordered as he leaned down to kiss her quickly, then stood to take off his own clothing.

She wanted to tell him to slow down, to let her savor every little thing. The toeing off of his loafers to reveal bare feet with surprisingly sexy toes. The movement of his long fingers on the buckle of his belt. The rasp of the zipper. The shrug of his hips to let his pants fall into a pool at his feet, which he kicked aside. Then two hands slipping into the sides of his boxer briefs, pushing them down, down down. Showing . . .

“Oh, my!” she said.

He arched his brows. “Now am I pretty?”

“Not exactly pretty. More like . . . amazing.”

“Why amazing?” he asked, leaning down to take his wallet out of the back pocket of his pants and removing a strip of foil packets, which he lobbed onto the mattress behind her.

“Amazing that you must want me that much,” she said with a giggle, pointing at his turgid penis—really turgid penis!

“Sweetheart, you have no idea. That’s only the half of it.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, then picked her up by the waist once again and tossed her up onto the mattress. He followed after her, spread her legs, then knelt between her knees.

She held out her arms for him.

But he didn’t move, just looked her over, closely.

“I’m ready,” she prompted, in case he didn’t get the message.

“Well, I’m not.”

Whaaat? She glanced toward his happy place and arched her brows in disagreement. “Really?”

“Sweetheart, I have been wanting you for so long that I intend to enjoy and prolong every bit of this encounter. More than one encounter, if I have my way. And by encounter I mean . . . well, I don’t want to be too graphic. Yet.”

“How do you know I haven’t been wanting you, too?”

“Maybe. I hope so.”

In truth, it was only between the appetizer and the entrée tonight that Delilah had decided to go all the way with Merrill. And isn’t that an indication of my lack of experience that I would think in such a high school-ish way? All the way? Next I’ll be thinking in terms of first base, second base, and home runs. Jeesh!

Bottom line: Merrill was an attractive man. She liked him. He’d made it more than obvious that he liked her, or lusted after her.

He was single. She was single.

And she did have—not exactly needs, but—wants. Long-suppressed wants.

More than anything, she was damned tired of being different from other women. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself without looking over her shoulder?

As if sensing her thoughts, Merrill chucked her under the chin. “Tell me what you like.”

Whoa! Blunt much, buddy? “I don’t know what I like.” At the look of disbelief on his face, she disclosed, “I’ve only been with one boy . . . man . . . ever.”

“And where is he . . . never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Actually, you really don’t. Prison is not a subject to be brought up in the midst of lovemaking. Talk about a killjoy!

“Let’s discover what you like . . . and what I like . . . together.”