Bo made a strangled sound at her own thoughts, half sob and half chuckle. She swallowed and managed to say, “What?” Not very coherent or eloquent, but it was the best she could do.
He sat down on the bed to remove his shoes. “You know what. The only question was when. The answer is now.”
That was succinct enough.
She wanted this. She wanted him, specifically. But she didn’t want him here out of pity, and all this crying might be a major turnoff to him. Morgan didn’t strike her as a man who had a lot of patience with weakness. “Are you sure?”
He was lifting the covers, and he paused. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m a mess.” She was a tangled turmoil of emotions, grieving when there was no need to grieve, crying when she hated to cry, so overflowing with thoughts that she couldn’t get a handle on any of them long enough to know for certain what she was feeling.
“I’m a guy,” he said prosaically as he got into bed beside her.
She was surprised into laughter and surprised that she could laugh. “Does that mean guys don’t mind messes?”
“Pretty much.” He slid his arm under her neck, urged her closer so that she was lying completely against him, her head snuggled onto his shoulder. The heat of his bare skin engulfed her, warming her through the fabric of her clothing. Under her fingers she could feel the crispness of his chest hair, grown back enough to be somewhat soft.
“I just don’t want you to do this because you feel sorry for me,” she confessed almost inaudibly.
For answer he took the hand lying on his chest and moved it down to the front of his shorts. His erection jumped at her touch, pushing into her palm. “Does this feel like sympathy?”
No, it definitely did not. Excitement speared through her; when he lifted his hand she left hers where it was, and trailed her fingertips up and down the hard length before folding her hand around his penis to get a good feel for the size of him. A little purring sound vibrated in her throat before she could catch it. He was so thick she had a pang of doubt before her hormones smothered it. Yes, she wanted him, she wanted this. She had always been alone, stood alone, and now she didn’t want to.
At her touch he went rigid and gave a rough groan. Firmly he grabbed her hand and moved it away. “You aren’t the only one with problems,” he growled, his voice sandpapery. “I haven’t had sex in so long I’ll last maybe fifteen seconds. I have to think about the tactical aspects of this.”
The darkness made it easy for her to relax, to smile. “You’re looking at me the same way you would a military mission?”
“Damn straight. I have territory to conquer, like these points of interest.” He slipped his big hand inside the loose neck of her tank top and gently rubbed his palm over her nipples, making them tighten. The rasp of his rough skin sent a sharp twinge of sensation from her nipples straight to her groin. Her back arched in response, her fingers dug into his shoulder. Primal excitement lit up her nerve endings, firing off such a multitude of responses she instinctively turned into him to seek more of them. His heat seared her from head to toes, drawing her in, comforting and enticing.
“Hills and ravines,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple as he moved his hand to the small of her back and deftly slipped under the elastic waistband of her sleep pants to stroke the curves of her ass and slide a finger along the cleft there. Helplessly she arched again, her body knowing what it wanted and curving into his touch. Her heart was racing, her breath coming in rapid puffs. Just like that he had her skin so sensitized she felt as if a mild electric shock was running through her. Just like that she was ready for him—but then, she’d been ready for him since the first time he’d kissed her.
“Interesting tight places,” he continued, sliding his hand farther down to curve it between her legs. Two big fingers pressed into her; the sensation of being penetrated and stretched was almost overwhelming. She clutched at his broad shoulders, digging her fingers into the pads of muscle. When he moved, he moved fast. There was something she needed to think about, but as long as he was doing what he was doing, she seemed incapable of thought, only of feeling.
Then his fingers were gone, and he deftly turned her onto her back; the sudden emptiness was so sharp she had to fight the irrational surge of anger at the absence of all those sensations. But at least that gave her a little breathing space, and she remembered what she’d wanted to tell him.
“I’m on the pill.” She blurted it out, too distracted to think of a lead-in. She had been taking the pill for years—not for birth control, but because otherwise her periods were horribly irregular.
“Good deal. I’d hate to get out of bed and make an emergency run to town to buy condoms. You might not let me back in.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
She might not, simply because she might panic. She hadn’t made love in years, not since her divorce because in the bitter aftermath she had concluded that sex made women stupid. The obvious solution was to not let anyone close enough that she was even tempted—and she hadn’t been, until Morgan.
When she didn’t argue with his supposition, he gave a rueful laugh and kissed her. Until he did, she hadn’t realized that in the middle of all the great-feeling things he was doing to her, she had really wanted to be kissed. She looped her arms around his neck and gave him back as good as she got, matching his tongue stroke for stroke, loving the taste and hunger and urgency of him. His hands clenched on her sides and he drew back, yanked the tank top off over her head, then came back down on top of her.