Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Anna and Klaus at Brown's

"Is this going to become a recurring event?" Anya asked.

She was still unable to open her eyes, but it didn't bother her one bit. Her heartbeat hadn't slowed down yet, either.

"It should," he answered merrily and chuckled. "And I've never heard anyone referring to an orgasm as an event."

Anya sighed contently.

"Well, it is an event for me," she said and finally managed to look at him.

They were lying on their sides, facing each other. Earlier, as she could vaguely recall, he'd been gently pushing her, encouraging her to shift up on the bed, closer to the headboard, so now she had to crane her neck. At the very end, she'd been pretty much clawing at the wall; and she remembered him grabbing her hip with his left hand, to steady her bottom half, while the fingers of his right hand... moved. Anya glanced down, between their bodies, at said fingers - and blushed.

"It was even faster this time," he made a deadpan observation.

The heat on her cheeks grew more intense.

"Well, you clearly know what you're doing," she grumbled. "And I reckon, I'm easy."

He burst into a quiet laughter. "It's not like it's a skill that one just picks up after a break, älskling."

She felt his fingertips dance on the waist of her unbuttoned jeans and snake under her tee onto her stomach, and then onto her side, and her lower back - and then in reverse.

"It's more like learning a new instrument," he joked. When he was being saucy, there were jolly sparks jumping in his eyes. Or maybe you see them because you're an enamoured moo-moo. "It requires fine tuning. Actually, I just fancy touching you. Move closer, please," he murmured. "If you want."

Anya writhed on the bed and pressed into him. "I fancy it when you touch me," she whispered. "Also you have very long fingers. I bet this helps."

He snorted. "I do have very long fingers. I have the same span as Rachmaninoff." He nuzzled the top of her head. "And you're... small. That helps too," he added cheekily.

Technically, her 'size' hadn't played any role in what had just happened. Anya was properly ignorant about shag, and wouldn't know whether he'd stayed 'on the surface' because that's how it was done according to some mysterious rules, or maybe he was just taking it slow, which would make sense considering her lacking experience. He'd run the tips of his digits down her lower stomach, twisted his wrist, angling his hand, and started drawing feathery, tight circles on just the right spot; and she had to tear her mouth off his, although she'd hated to interrupt their kissing; and she'd gasped, and moaned - and fireworks!

There was only that much shag discussion she could handle, though - does she need to research this online too? - and she mumbled, "Why are we having this ridiculous conversation?"

"I'm clearly gagging for validation and compliments to my performance," he answered, and added much quieter, "And I don't want to talk about doctors, and operations, and X-rays."

She craved to touch him - and then she remembered that, maybe, she now was allowed to. She almost lifted her hand to his face - but the usual hesitation kicked in. Her relationship with Dom - its beginning, him chatting her up in a club, the first date, the first night together, going out, and then her getting pregnant, and him marrying her - had been, on every step of the way, normal. At any point of time she had had a pretty good idea what she was supposed to do and where it was all going. She felt no such certainty at the moment.

She sat up, mostly to hide her face from him and to pull herself together.

"I think you've mentioned something about room service before," she said. Her tone was flat. "I'm sort of peckish. Can we eat now?"