Seventh Wonder by Renae Kelleigh Page A

against hers more than she needed air to breathe. She fumbled with the buttons on John’s shirt. His hand circled her wrist for a moment, a spiritless attempt to arrest her progress, then slid away, smoothing back down her front to her thigh. He kissed her hungrily as she slipped the last button free, then rolled away, allowing her to push the sleeves off his shoulders.
    Even in the feeble light, Meg could appreciate the beauty. A man without his shirt was a man bared to the world - it was a sight she’d always loved, because it revealed the muscles and sinew and bones he used to create and construct and perform. And yet, now, looking at John, it felt like the first time she’d beheld such a thing.
    Broad chest, covered in a light thatch of hair. Burnished skin sheathing curved ribs and concrete muscle. Strong, corded arms. Shoulders that were powerful and layered in hunks of solid meat that flexed and stretched as he moved.
    She laid her open hand against his chest and trailed her fingertips down the shallow trough between his abdominal muscles to the fine, silky hairs on his stomach. John stared at her, entranced, his hands still.
    “Touch me,” Meg whispered, half desperate. His nostrils flared as he worked his jaw, causing that telltale muscle to tic in the hollow of his cheek. He levered himself over the top of her, holding the brunt of his weight on one elbow while inching his right hand up over her panties to splay his fingers against the bare skin of her hip.
    His breath left him in a gentle hiss while his eyes drifted down, watching his hand as it plowed steadily upward, pushing the loose flannel of Meg’s shirt farther along her side. He kissed her swollen lips, then shifted his weight onto his knees and pulled himself up to kneeling. He dropped light kisses along her ribs before glancing back up at her face. “Incredible,” he murmured.
    Then, touching her lips: “Meg.” Just that - just her name, barely whispered, as he gazed down at her with unadulterated wonder in his eyes. It caused every muscle along her spine to cinch tighter, an aching cramp that closely resembled the miserable yearning in her belly.
    He started unbuttoning her shirt at the bottom, first exposing her navel. The tip of his tongue sketched a wet line up the center of her torso as he bared its soft, milky skin one button at a time. When he reached her chest, he stopped and looked up at Meg, silently begging her permission. She nodded, her lip trembling, then pulled in a jagged breath as he released the final two buttons and dipped his head to lick lightly between her breasts. The fabric slid slow, fast, faster across her nipples until, a moment later, it fell and left her torso almost completely uncovered.
    His movements were unhurried and deliberate, his palms and fingers and lips and tongue taking time to savor every inch. Meg’s back bowed off the bed as his hands glided up the bumps of her ribs to rest at the base of her full breasts. A low growl rumbled deep in his throat, sounding like the expression of a craving that was only just restrained. His hands cupped her breasts as he kissed them, lavished the same attention on each nipple as he had on her mouth.
    Meg’s hands, meanwhile, roamed over his back and shoulders and chest. Her heart quickened in time with the fluttering of her fingers, and John’s motions, too, accelerated. It was a gentle grappling, a fanatical exploration of unmapped frontiers.
    His knee pressed between her legs, and Meg squeezed her thighs around his. The sensation of a rigid warmth nudging against the inside of her leg caused a deep-rooted unspooling of something hard and knotted in her gut.
    He sat up semi-abruptly.
    “Oh God, Meg.” His left hand fisted in his hair while his right gripped his leg; his eyes remained on her body. He dropped onto his side next to her and tugged at her waist, pulling her on top of him so that her breasts jostled against his chest. Holding her face between his hands, he