Lethally Blond by Kate White Page A

body relaxed into mine. He lifted his right hand and stroked my damp hair, softly at first and then with firmer, more urgent fingers. I felt something stir in me.
    Chris pulled back slightly and stared into my eyes. Then his mouth found mine. I was instantly reminded of how good his soft, full lips could feel and taste. He kissed me hungrily, and I kissed him back with the same urgency. As I relaxed into his body even more, I couldn’t help but notice the hardness between his legs.
    “God, Bailey,” he said. “I want to consume every inch of you.”
    “Okay,” I whispered without any hesitation. I realized I was saying yes for a whole bunch of reasons—because what girl could resist a line like that one, because I
wanted
Chris and there was no guilt this time, and because I felt, as he probably did, that sex would chase away our sadness for a while.
    “Why don’t we just go to bed, then,” I said.
    I turned off the lamp and walked with him to my bedroom. I kicked off my flip-flops and found a stretchy to tie back my wet hair. When I turned around, Chris was pulling off his shirt. He was less tan than when I’d seen him before—perhaps from working all summer—but the color he did have accented his well-defined abs. He had two Chinese characters tattooed on his right arm, meaning good fortune, something I’d nearly forgotten about. I reached up and stroked his chest with my hands.
    He leaned down and kissed me, his tongue in my mouth. He laid both hands on my breasts and, through the fabric of my tank top, circled my nipples with his thumbs.
    “You know what the first thing you ever said to me was?” I asked. “When you were tending bar at that wedding?”
    He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes squinted.
    “You asked me if I wanted a buttery nipple.”
    He smirked. “I couldn’t disguise my fascination with you even then.”
    With both hands, he pulled my tank over my head and took my breasts in his hands, stroking and massaging them while he kissed me again. My heart was racing now, and my legs felt all rubbery.
    Still kissing me, he laid the heel of his hand against my groin and pressed, released, pressed, released. I let out a moan, not meaning to. He yanked apart the top snap of my jeans, pulled down the zipper, and then tugged off both my jeans and underwear. I tried to reach for the button of
his
jeans, but he lifted me and laid me back on the white duvet that covered my bed. He took off his own jeans and stepped out of a pair of gray boxer briefs. His naked body was as gorgeous as his face. It seemed almost illegal that I was about to have sex with someone who looked like that.
    For the next hour, he did what he had promised—consumed me. His fingers and mouth explored every inch of me, making me writhe with pleasure. I could see that he was being driven in large part by his despair over Tom’s death. Was this what you’d call a grief fuck? I wondered. Maybe, but it felt too good to worry about. By the time he finally entered me, I was barely thinking straight anyway.
    I fell asleep almost instantly in his hard, strong arms, totally spent. But an hour and a half later, I woke, needing to pee, and then there was no going back to sleep for me. After pouring myself a glass of milk, I absorbed the view beyond my terrace. Even at this hour, buildings were dabbed with lights—suggesting party animals and floor pacers like me. For two years after my divorce, I’d been dogged by merciless, unrelenting insomnia, which had finally abated about seven or eight months ago. Any bout of sleeplessness put the fear of God in me. I hoped tonight was a fluke, a response to all the thoughts bubbling in my head—about Tom’s ugly death, sleeping with Chris, thinking about Beau the moment Chris had thrust himself into me. From my coffee table, I picked up
The New York Times
that had been delivered the day before and skimmed through it. At about three, I dozed off on my couch and then at five crawled back