She led me to the back door of the stable and shut the door behind us once we were inside. The smell of hay and horses overwhelmed me and for a moment, my mind went fuzzy. But when Lydia led me to a decently sized room, where there was a cot that the men who worked in the stable could use if there was any cause, like one of the mare's birthing a foal, and closed the door, the smells lost their pungent quality and I was able to focus again.
Feeling some apprehension about being totally alone with Lydia in such a private location, I pulled her hand, halting her. She turned, staring up at me again. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothin'. This is good, right here," I said. She'd been leading me toward the cot and I knew that was a bad idea. I'd kiss her once and then I'd leave. Some small alarm still rang inside me, but I ignored it, knowing I was helpless to resist her. In the end, I'd do as she wanted me to do whether it seemed like a good idea or not. I knew it, and she bloody well knew it, too.
Lydia stepped closer to me until our bodies were barely touching, and she leaned up on her tiptoes and gently pressed her mouth to mine. I felt the soft press of her lips as if every nerve ending was focused right there where we were joined. Hot desire raced through my veins, and I made a small choking sound. Her eyes opened and something soft and understanding appeared in her gaze. She moved slowly and sensually as one hand came up to the back of my head, her fingers weaving through my hair, the soft scratch of her nails over my scalp causing my skin to prickle. Lydia's other hand went around my waist, resting there like a warm weight. I put my trembling hands on her hips, bracing myself, and closed my eyes, focusing on the feather-light brush of her lips.
Tentatively, I reached my tongue out to taste her, my nerves stretched as tight as a bow, my senses on overload in a way I'd never experienced before and wasn't sure how to manage. The mingling of pleasure and pain wrapped around me, holding me tightly in a strange embrace, an exquisite torture. I couldn't figure out which sensations to focus on. And somehow Lydia seemed to know. She dropped her hands from my hair and my waist so the only parts of us touching were our mouths. I sighed against her lips, learning the taste of her, a subtle sweetness mixed with a hint of richness, like milk and honey. God, it was good. Better than good. Completely fascinated, I delved my tongue into her mouth to get more of it, and she let out a little whimper, causing me to harden painfully. Her tongue met mine, wet and warm, and so very, very soft, drugging me, and yet causing my senses to sing. Our tongues danced and thrust, and I pressed my groin against hers, seeking some relief, and finding only more sensation that was both maddeningly pleasurable and searingly painful.
I used all my willpower to pull away, my lips coming off Lydia's with a wet pop. She gazed at me, confusion and need warring in her expression. It took me off guard. I'd only ever seen Lydia look fully in control. "Was that your first kiss, too, Brogan?" she asked uncertainly.
I looked away, trying desperately to control my breathing. "Was I that bad at it?" I asked, shooting her a small smirk I didn't feel.
She shook her head. The expression on her face was almost one of . . . wonder. "No, it wasn't that. It was incredible, and I love that it was a first for both of us. I just . . . you're trembling." She took my hand and pulled. "Come sit with me on the cot." When I hesitated, she added, "Please." And so I followed. Again. When we sat down, she scooted closer and ran a finger down my chest.
"Lydia," I groaned.
"Can I see you?" she whispered. "Please, Brogan? I want to see you." She began tugging on my T-shirt and I let her, lifting my arms as she brought it over my head. I sat before her, hardly breathing as her eyes raked over my bare chest. I knew I was fit. How could I not be? I did physical labor eight hours a day most days. But I'd never been naked before anyone. And this wasn't just anyone. This was Lydia, the girl who made my guts clench with nothing more than a glance. I felt vulnerable and afraid. I watched as Lydia's delicate throat moved in a swallow. "God, you're beautiful," she said. "Is it okay if I touch you?"
I nodded. I was incapable of anything else. She reached her hand out slowly and ran her palm down my chest, using her index finger to move over the ridges of my stomach, stopping at the sparse, dark line of hair under my naval that disappeared into my jeans. I sucked in a breath as her gaze moved down to the erection straining through my pants. Her eyes met mine in question, and she must have seen something in my face that gave her permission, because she reached down and ran her hand over my shaft. "Oh God," I groaned, helplessly pressing myself into her hand. I couldn't believe this was happening. This was . . . I couldn't think. I could only want. And I wanted Lydia. I'd wanted Lydia for what seemed like forever.
We lay back on the cot, and she unbuttoned my jeans and slipped her hand inside. When she wrapped her warm fingers around me, I jerked in her hand and groaned, lying perfectly still, just focused on the sensations. Pleasure and pain. She brought her lips to mine again as she stroked me, and I turned my mouth away from her. It was too much. Too much all at once. She continued to stroke me and after a minute, she sat up and took her tank top off, followed by her bra. Her gaze stayed on me as she undressed and when her breasts popped free, I barely resisted the urge to moan at the sight alone. She was so beautiful it hurt me a little. Her breasts were full and high, creamy white where her swimsuit had covered her skin from the sun. Her nipples were a pale pink and already hardened. Jaysus, so pretty. Barely hanging on to control, I sat up and tasted them, rolling one around my tongue. Lydia gasped, but only pressed toward me. "You're making me ache, Brogan. I want you. I never knew . . . Oh," she gasped. I sucked a nipple into my mouth, learning the texture of that intimate skin, like velvet with barely discernible, soft ridges at the very peak. And her skin, yes, it was clean with a light hint of vanilla—maybe a body wash that still barely lingered. She rolled out from under me, my mouth coming off her breast, but before I could question what she was doing, she stood and shimmied off her skirt and underwear and then removed my shoes and socks and jeans. I watched, dazed. I should stop this. I should. It had gone too far and I couldn't figure out how it had happened.