It was very easy to talk about distance in the hypothetical.
“She won’t find out,” she whispered, her tongue briefly flicking his ear, punctuating her tempting words. “I promise.”
Her top had already found its way to a nearby couch, discarded a few minutes earlier courtesy of her nimble fingers and wicked mind. His hands spanned her waist, softer now than the last time they’d done this, holding her to him so he was certain that she could feel his eagerness rising against her small body. Once again she had him panting, wanting, and he hated that she still had that fucked up power over him.
He had two beautiful children and another on the way, undeniable proof that he could find pleasure in another even after his and Stevie’s failed attempt at reconciliation, and yet the moment she’d opened the dressing room door to him, he’d needed her under him, had needed to be in her, in a way that felt like too much. It always had, though.
The very first time they’d made love, he had buried his head in the pillow afterwards, not wanting her to see the emotion he was fairly sure was in his eyes. She’d known, though, had pried his hands and the pillow away from his face. She’d kissed his forehead gently and her slim fingers had caressed his jaw so softly he thought he’d die of wanting.
“Now,” she demanded, her breathy command distracting him from the memory. “Off.” She was usually quite loquacious, even maddeningly chatty, his ex-girlfriend. “Hurry.” Not when they made love, though.
Grinning, Lindsey unclasped her bra (red lace, thank you very much, God), bemused by the way she immediately pressed her breasts to his bared chest. She’d been more self-conscious about her body recently, clothed or not, and his verbal reassurances apparently hadn’t been enough. He reached for her, forced her to step back from him. “You’re beautiful. They’re beautiful.” A slight flush crept up her neck. “C’mere. Kiss me.”
Stevie reached for his belt.