Free Reaching First by Mindy Klasky Page B

the dresser that had been in her family for generations. The fat white columns glowed, perfuming the air with a hint of vanilla.  
    She’d stacked decorative pillows in the corner—arranging them and rearranging them in an effort to make everything look casual. The first time she’d prepared the room, she’d turned back the comforter and sheet in a precise, demure line. After her first vodka tonic, though, that had looked too careful, too precious. She’d tangled the comforter and left it looking like the lair of some feral beast.
    And two hours and many drinks later that was exactly how she felt—like a wild animal.
    Her heart pounded, far faster than climbing any sweep of stairs could account for. Her head spun as her thoughts leaped from the candles to the bed sheets to the damp curls of hair against the nape of her neck. She licked her lips, but barely felt the motion; her entire body hummed as if she’d brushed against a generator.
    She couldn’t delay any longer. She had to look at Tyler. Had to admit that she had drawn him here, that she was the one who was leading every step of this dance.  
    Possessed by a power she’d never felt before, she prowled over to the bed. It felt completely natural to kneel amid the froth of sheets, to arch her back and smile an invitation. Tyler’s eyes flared with hunger as one strap of her camisole slipped from her shoulder.
    She beckoned with one finger—commanding, promising. He closed the distance like a man in a dream.
    Her fingers burned as she worked his belt buckle. The metal tongue slipped free like a charm. She loosened the leather and eased it out of a couple of loops, watching Tyler’s eyes close, studying the bob of his Adam’s apple as he leaned his head back. One more loop, easing, teasing, and then she whipped the rest of the leather free.
    He started at the sound, a jerking motion that threatened to pull him away from her. She couldn’t have that, though. Not when she was finally on the verge of getting what she truly needed.  
    She looped the belt around her neck, pulling it tight enough that the dark leather would stand out against her flesh. There were no holes for the metal tongue, no way to keep the belt close. But she took the free end and slapped it, once, twice, a demanding three times against his jean-clad thigh.  
    He groaned and trapped the belt between her fingers and the sturdy layer of denim. She traced the edge of the leather with one scarlet fingernail, pressing hard enough into his twitching muscle to draw a gasp from his throat. She used his momentary distraction to free her hand, to slip her fingers into the waistband of his pants, to tug loose his T-shirt. His belly was as toned as she had imagined—hard lines that tightened when she spread her painted fingers across his abs.
    And there was the line of dark hair, the arrow that led her back to his jeans, to the button fly that was straining taut. Her fingers were less nimble than they would have been a drink or two before, but she managed to twist the buttons free. Each one ratcheted up the tension—in Tyler’s clenched fists, in her own caught breath as his belt slipped loose across her throat. She eased her hands between the fabric and his body, protecting him even as she pulled him closer.
    Finally, the pants were undone, the flaps hanging open, exposing the generous bulge beneath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she hooked her heels behind his calves, forcing him closer. The motion anchored her, made the room stop wobbling on its axis. She settled a feather kiss at the crown of his boxers, flicking her tongue against his flesh even as her fingernails dug into his hips.
    “Emily,” he breathed. “I—”
    But anything else he planned on saying was lost as she slipped her hand inside the slit at the front of his shorts. The hard length of him was raging to escape. She barely had to guide him, scarcely had to run her quivering palm to the tangle of curls at his base, and he was