Free Brave (Healer) by April Smyth Page A

small strip of bare flesh showing where his shirt rides up. I lick my lips as I take in the russet tones of his skin and the pleasant trail of hair above the zip of his jeans. My mind is elsewhere but Oliver remains firmly in reality, ‘Would you stop stressing out so much and talk to me, Cassie? Is it the Gabe thing?’
                  Guilt hits me so hard I feel like I can’t breathe. I should be thinking about ‘the Gabe thing’ but I’m not. I’m thinking about how I would like to trace every line of Oliver’s well-sculpted body with my fingertips and then with my tongue. I’m thinking about the steamy bath I had the first morning here and how much I would love to recreate the scene only with Oliver as an additional character. I should be worrying about Gabe, my family, Rose... Most of the time I am preoccupied with those things but, right now, no, I’m not thinking about ‘the Gabe thing.’ I’m sick of crying and feeling like life is too unfair to be bearable. I’m sick of being sad; now all I want to feel is Oliver. The guilt starts to ebb away again.
                  I flip my body over and raise my eyes to meet his. Oliver wipes away the stray tears with his thumbs then rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘Talk to me, Cassie,’ he says but I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to succumb to the desire which rises with every breath I take.
                  I clasp the neckline of his shirt and give him a knowing look. I am done with words. I am ready to taste his lips again. He shoots me a confused expression. He asks me if this is what I want with his eyes; I run my fingers along his collarbone and slide my teeth across my bottom lip as confirmation. I watch him gulp and it makes me smile to know how nervous I am making him. The vulnerable look in his brown eyes only makes me want him more. I push my face closer to his but pause, teasing, to let the warmth of our mingling breaths entice him. It works. He moves his hand from my shoulder down my arm and rests it on my hip then he lets out a shaky breath of anticipation. I grin at him then press my lips against his.
                  At first our lips move in perfect unison. It’s gentle, not passionate like kissing Maurice, not hungry and hopeless like kissing Gabe. It is sensually slow as if we have all the time in the world. His hand moves from the safe position on my hip and starts to explore my upper thigh. The jeans I am wearing feel constricting. I want them off and I want to feel his fingertips electrify my bare skin.
                  My hands wander underneath his shirt and they glide across his solid body. The kissing builds as his tongue and mine meet. My temperature rises. There is no way he is teasing me then letting me go this time. I won’t allow it.
                  Quickly, I tug off his jeans and throw them off the bed. He pulls mine off with ease. His legs are stalky and I squeeze a brilliantly muscular thigh. I love the way he feels underneath my fingers. His fingers are slipping underneath the elastic waistband of my pants. My lips stray from his mouth and onto his neck. I am overcome with longing. It has been months since I have felt the heat of a man and the intensity is doubled as I know it is real this time. Every fiery look and every shudder down my spine is my own emotions and not manipulated like it had been with Maurice.
                  His hands move away from the waistband. Tease, I think scornfully. They make their way underneath my top and his fingertips make small circles on my fleshy stomach and up to my breasts where they linger. I would normally feel nervous at someone feeling the bits I’m most insecure about so intimately but I am too lost in the moment to care and I get the impression that he likes these bits I hate. He grunts with pleasure.
                  There is a small pause between my kissing and his touching while he