Chapter 5: Sofa

His mouth went still under mine for one heartbeat.

Then he kissed me back.

One big hand slid into my hair and the other flattened against my back, and he pulled me into his lap on the carpet.

I was twenty-seven, and he was thirty-four.

Nobody had ever kissed me like I was worth being careful with and worth devouring at once.

"Say what you want," he said against my lip.

"You," I said. "On me. Now."

"Slow."

"Rafferty."

"Slow," he said, and tipped my head back with two fingers.

He kissed the line of my throat, down to the collar of my uniform shirt, and every button he undid was a small, deliberate argument.

I got my hands under his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders.

His T-shirt was soft from a hundred washes, and under it he was hard and warm and bigger than I had thought.

I dragged it up over his head and threw it at the couch.

He had a scar across his ribs, thin and old, and I put my mouth on it.

He made a low, ragged sound, and his grip on my hip tightened.

"Bed," he said.

"The couch is closer."

"Then the couch."

He stood with me wrapped around his waist.

He set me down on the cushions on my back and knelt on the floor between my knees.

My shirt was open and my bra was black lace I'd bought for Dean and never worn.

Rafferty looked at it for a long moment.

"This is a crime," he said.

"It's a bra."

"It's a crime against me."

He unhooked it with one thumb and the lace fell away.

His mouth closed on my nipple, hot and slow, and I arched off the couch with a sound I didn't know I could make.

His hand pushed my skirt up my thighs, and he found the edge of my panties and stopped.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

He held my eyes while he slid two fingers under the silk, and found how wet I was.

"Fuck," he said, soft and reverent.

"You did that."

"I'm going to do a lot more of it."

He stripped me bare on my own sofa, one piece of clothing at a time, with a lazy thoroughness that made me want to scream.

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