The Lover's Children novel Chapter 81

GEORGIE

“You want this Georgie? You really want this? You want me?”

“Yes. I want you. I've never wanted anyone more. Why would you doubt it?”

I think he'll smile at my words. He doesn't. Instead, he grows more intent, more intense. He fingers at the hem of my sweater, I think trying to slip his hand under. Somehow, it snags and catches and after a moment, with a quiet curse he simply tugs. “Take the damn thing off,” he says. “I want to see you. I want to see all of you.”

Then he drops his face, rests his forehead on mine. “My apologies, Georgie. That was rude of me. I’m not usually so incompetent with a woman.”

And just like that, my nerves evaporate. This man… This beautiful man… He wants me. He really wants me.

He wants me so much that it’s making him clumsy.

“Why don’t we both get undressed, get into the bed, and take it from there?”

He laughs quietly. “Why don’t we do that. Instead of behaving like a pair of teenagers on their first time.” He gestures to a door. “That’s the en-suite. Go get undressed. Have a wash or… whatever. You’ll find a new toothbrush in the cabinet if you need it. I’ll use the other bathroom and join you in a few minutes.” He gestures again, this time to the bed. “I put on the electric blanket. Make yourself comfortable.” He kisses my forehead. “See you in a few minutes.”

*****

Borje’s bed is wide and warm and welcoming. Naked, I lie under the duvet…

… And wait.

It’s been hours since he left me.

The clock tells me it’s been three minutes.

The door opens and Borje enters, wearing a knee-length robe. Padding across the carpet, he sits beside me, and soft-eyed, strokes my hair. Then turning away from me for a moment, he unbelts the robe, slips it off…

… and for the blink-of-an-eye, I see him, my Lover.

His body… Long… Lean… Not heavily built, but finely drawn, like some anatomical illustration of male beauty. Leonardo might have made such a sketch. Or Michelangelo. Spare, toned features, traced in muscle and bone, the skin fine and smooth save for the tracery of silver hair over chest, forearms and calves. And the tangle of hair, a shade or two darker, at his groin, nesting his penis, already half erect.

My mouth is dry again, but I turn back the cover, inviting him into his own bed, to bring that beautiful body closer to me.

He slides between the sheets to lie beside me, he on his left side, me on my right. His fingers rest on my cheek, mine on his breastbone.

Without a word exchanged, we move closer, his arms around me, mine around him. His kiss is sweet. So sweet. A moan shudders from my throat, swallowed as our kiss deepens. Fingers wind into my hair then shift to explore my skull, the curve of my neck, the sensitive area between my shoulders. The fingers stroke, then dig in: short, blunt-ended nails pecking into skin and flesh. Pinpricks skitter down my spine, tap-dancing along each vertebra and rib, setting me humming inside.

My hips buck and Borje rumbles, somewhere deep in his chest. Perhaps it is appreciation. Perhaps it is laughter. Whichever, the hand which plays the dancing tune for my spine sweeps south, palming over the curve of my waist, smoothing my hip, stroking my outer thigh.

My own hands wander his shoulders, over his rib cage, range over his body…

But as I pass over his navel, he takes my wrist in his hand. “No.”

I’m confused. “No?”

“No. Let me make love to you, Georgie. Don’t touch me. Not yet anyway.”

Confusion battles inside me. “You don’t want me to touch you?”

He speaks softly, but with laughter bubbling in the words. “I do want you to touch me, but just hold off a while.” His smile is winsome, depreciating. “I want this to last more than five minutes. If you touch me now…”

And I laugh. How can I not? “I get you…” I roll onto my back, arms splayed extravagantly. “Take me, then, Sir Jaspar. Have your way with an innocent girl.”

He waggles brows... “I was hoping you’d say something like that.” … and moves to lie close alongside me, his hard shaft pressed to my thigh. Smoothing over my stomach with a palm, he rests his head in the crook of my neck. The palm sweeps over my spare breasts, plucking at first one nipple, then the other. Then, shoving back the duvet… “I want to look at you…” … he props himself on an elbow, rising above me, surveying me.