Rolling in the Deep by Rebecca Rogers Maher

caressing me. His hands move under the hem of my shirt, over the curve of spine, my hip.
    “This T-shirt,” he says, fanning his thumbs over my belly, “is fucking killing me.”
    “Why?” I manage, breathless.
    “Because, look at you.” He sets me back a few inches and rakes his gaze over my breasts, my stomach. Which is not as flat as it used to be, in the days before Drew. He lowers his face and presses it against my heart. I feel the heat of his lips, his breath, the faint bristle of his slight beard through the cotton of my T-shirt.
    I want to feel it against my bare skin. I sit up and pull the shirt over my head, and toss it onto the bed.
    Ray just lies there for a moment, on his side, and gazes at me. At my belly, my bra, my face. He sits up, slowly, and takes me in.
    I get the feeling that he’s being careful. That he’s trying not to spook me. I’m grateful for his slowness. For the fact that he’s taking his time and making sure we both feel comfortable.
    But I don’t want him to be careful anymore.
    He holds my bare arms in his hands. I feel the tension in those hands, the restraint. The energy coiled inside him that he’s holding back.
    “Ray.”
    “I don’t want to scare you, Holly.”
    “I’m not scared,” I lie.
    “You should be.” His fingers grip me tighter. “I am.”
    All the air goes out of me. Just flies out. He stands and steps between my legs where I sit on the bed. Then he leans in and presses his mouth against the slender bra strap on my left shoulder. He licks his way down, tracing the satin, down to my breast. And then his hands come up and ease the bra down. He releases the snap in back and lets it fall to the ground.
    He lifts one of my breasts to his mouth and licks, his tongue curling around my nipple, and my body bends back, my hands go to his hair. I’m pushing my nipple into his mouth, and he’s licking me, and I’m dying.
    His other hand moves, palm down, under my skirt, opening my thighs. He makes a fist and presses it against my underwear. And I can’t help it; I push into that fist. He groans against my nipple and sucks it into his mouth.
    There’s too much clothing in the way now—my skirt bunched tightly around my hips, his jeans. His boots are still on. I stand abruptly to undo the button at my waist, and accidentally knock him backward. He stumbles into a side table and almost falls on his ass, which makes both of us double over, laughing. Me, half-dressed and probably bright red in the face, and him, struggling to get out of his boots, and failing.
    I get down on my knees and help him take his boot off. He stretches out his legs, leaning back on his hands, and watches me, chuckling.
    “I’ve never had my shoes removed by a topless woman before.”
    I straighten a little so my stomach doesn’t pooch out too much, and go for his other boot.
    “Not that I’m complaining.”
    He’s wearing brown socks that are insanely cute. They make my heart lurch a little as I take them off. I hold his bare foot in my hand. It’s strangely intimate, how warm his foot is, how sweet it feels against my palm.
    I look up into his eyes.
    “Why is it like this, Ray?”
    He knows exactly what I mean. “This intense? I don’t know.” He pulls his foot away gently and rises to his knees, facing me. “You gonna admit yet that you’re scared?”
    I tug on the hem of his shirt, and he stands and pulls it off.
    “Maybe.” I rise and face him.
    He inches forward. “Maybe?” His chest is hot against my breasts. His forearm presses into my back.
    I kiss him, and already his mouth is familiar—the taste of him and the texture, and painfully, achingly necessary.
    Yes, I’m scared.
    But it’s too late to turn back now.
    I unbutton his jeans, and drive my hands into the waistband. I take his gasp into my mouth, and flatten my palms against his thighs as he helps me pull everything down. His pants, my skirt. Then I drop to my knees.
    “Holly—”
    But I don’t let him