The Way of Love

THREE

Rob Camilletti awoke to the feeling of a soft pair of lips on his shoulder. He lay there, not moving, trying not to let on that he was conscious.

She hadn't moved much, if at all. He was still on his back; she was on her stomach, and her long, slender, sweatpants-covered leg was still comfortably wedged between his bare ones. Her hand was open on his chest and she was sort of lying on the side of his body. If he opened his eyes just a sliver, he could see her: the fabulous length of her back, her hair tumbled to the side, the curve of her breasts, nestled intimately against him, the ever-so-slight movement of her head as she pressed her lips along his shoulder.

Fuck, who was he kidding? He'd be in love with this woman until they put his ass under. There'd never been anyone else. He'd looked. He had been an open and shut case at age twenty-two.

No longer able to feign sleep, his hand moved, caressing her side. In response, she ever-so-slowly rolled her head to the side so she could see him.

He was looking down at her through thick black eyelashes, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at the sight of her face. "Morning."

She brought her hand up to his cheek and touched it, feeling the slight roughness beneath the pads of her fingers, the clearly defined bone structure in the cup of her palm. "Did you sleep okay?"

He turned his mouth to leave a kiss in her palm and another on the inside of her wrist. "Mm-hmm. What about you? How long have you been awake?"

"Couple minutes."

"You didn't move."

"Nope." Her eyes fluttered closed and he took inventory of her features, up close, un-made-up, and lit only with mid-morning sunlight. It was repeated so often by so many for the simple reason that it was true: she was virtually unchanged in any way that counted; all her age jokes and deprecations be damned. She was timeless.

He traced her face with one finger, over her brow, down her nose, across her mouth, and he smiled when her lips pursed under it.

"What're you doing?" she murmured, the corners of her mouth twitching just a little.

"Looking at you. It's been a long time. Do you mind?"

Cher shook her head, her eyes opening hazily, every bit as lovely in their natural setting as they were all dressed up for a performance. They met his, and held them, and she pushed herself off of him, allowing space and light between them, allowing him to look, but smiling when his eyes stayed locked on hers, instead of falling to the body she bared to him. "I don't mind," she whispered. "It has been a long time."

She lifted his hand, tanned, strong and equally capable of piloting a plane and making her throb at the barest touch, and slid her fingers between his, moving them slowly in and out of the spaces. He leaned down to kiss her, and before he got all the way to her, she guided his hand to her breast, reaching up to grip the nape of his neck as he rolled with her, turning her onto her back, going with her, falling into her space with a fervor he'd steered them away from the night before.

"I want you," he rasped, raising his hips so she could slide her legs to the outsides of his and groaning as he settled himself between them, rocking against her.

"Good," she breathed back, bringing a heel up and neatly catching it in the waistband of his boxers. Some skills stayed with a person for life. She caught his chin between thumb and forefinger and kept hold of it until he looked at her, his face an attractive cocktail of need and tenderness and mild humor at being interrupted, "Don't stop this time."

Rob inclined his face back down to hers, brushing their noses back and forth before pressing his lips against her ear, the one that stuck out the tiniest bit. "We're cold sober."