Paint Me Anew (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Anya and Klaus in The(ir) Old Bed

"Don't be," she whispered back.

He peppered several hot, greedy kisses, on her neck and in the cut of her dress, his teeth occasionally scraping at her skin. It still wasn't enough, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, craving more closeness. He then rounded his back and groaned.

"You'll have to do–" he rasped out and shook his head like a dog after a bath. "I can't–"

"Tell me what you need," she interrupted.

He shifted - she always noticed these days how graceful his movements were - and he rolled and sat down on the bed. He opened his palm, and she readily put her hand in it. He pulled, making her rise; and it was her turn to kneel, straddling him. She heard the whizz of the zipper on the back of her dress. Meanwhile, she couldn't stop running her hands over his shoulders and his chest.

He chuckled. "Have you got a bit of a fetish, darling?"

His flirty tone momentarily alleviated the tension between them.

"Hm?"

"You once mentioned it, half-asleep."

He hooked his fingers on the shoulders of her dress; and she had to take her hands off him to let the garment slide down and pool around her hips.

She remembered that: talking about his body hair, at the Brown's, on the night when they had made love for the first time. She'd been right in her assumptions then: it was of a rich auburn colour, darker than his beard, and rougher too.

"I never cared before," Anya murmured, returning to her exploration.

They were moving slowly now, each of them touching gently, intentionally, almost reverently, tracing lines: for her they were his muscles and scars, for him - the edges and lace of her bralette, the dip between her breasts, the curve of her shoulders and her clavicle.

"About the hair?"

"About... details," she answered and met his eyes. "About a man's looks in general. You're very beautiful to me. All of–" She stroked the notch at the base of his neck. "All of you."

"That's my line, älskling," he murmured.

Anya laughed quietly. "Well, you're a former model here. And maybe–"

"–I need a bit of reassurance?" he finished her sentence. He tucked her hair behind her ear, and the tips of his fingers lingered on her earlobe. He then brushed his knuckles, up and down, on the round bone behind her ear. "I think I might. Not out of vanity–"

"No, of course not." She nuzzled his familiar, warm palm. "And yes, I might have a bit of that fetish."

She mimicked his caress, with her knuckles, just as featherly, on his sternum. He chuckled.

"Good," he murmured and tenderly kissed her shoulder.

"Good." She copied his action - to a T.

"Good," he repeated again - and she giggled.

His hands lay on her waist, and he nudged her dress down, as low as it went.

"Oh wow..." he exhaled and carefully picked up the strap of her thong. He slid his fingers along it, and onto the triangle of lace on her sacrum. "Oh Anna..."

Over the course of the last few months, Anya had bought more clothes than she'd ever had as an adult: a couple of new dresses, a pair of charming flats - and more than a couple of undergarment sets. She'd never ventured into anything more exciting than cotton-jersey blended, plain, wireless, seamless, exclusively black or nude, though. No wonder that the lacy, intricate, mauve-coloured set made him rumble low in his throat, when he tilted his upper body to look at her behind.