Stranger by Megan Hart Page A

game. No matter how thoroughly I’ve imagined the scenario or how good the players, something inside me refuses to cooperate.
    Refuses to allow myself to be convinced, even for an hour, that I’m someone else. It was why I’d never played this game before, the older woman giving the younger man his First Time.
    Except here and now, I was older. Jack was younger. And this was our first time.
    I tugged my hand, but not hard enough to break free of his grip. “What makes you think I shouldn’t?”
    His fingers closed tighter. “Because you want to.”
    And I did, a fact the heat rising in my throat and cheeks couldn’t hide, nor the way my nipples poked at the front of my shirt. Or the way my mouth parted to allow the swipe of my tongue along my bottom lip. Jack looked at all of these signs, so blatant, but he kept the role in which I’d cast him.
    “Do you want to touch me?” The words came out scratchy and hoarse, but I didn’t clear my throat.
    He nodded. We stayed that way, him holding my wrist and staring into each other’s eyes for as long as it took for my heart to stutter-thump a few times. Jack’s fingers opened, freeing me. I put my hands out to my sides.
    “Then go ahead.”
    His gaze fell to my body. For a minute I wished I’d worn something sexier, a short skirt and garters, maybe. Yet when he put his hands on my waist, pushing up my shirt to do so, I was glad I wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was less of a cliché…which made it feel more real.
    Jack’s thumbs pressed my belly while his fingers curled around to each side of my spine.
    He waited, taking a deep breath and staring hard at the place his hands disappeared beneath my shirt.
    I was supposed to believe he’d never touched a woman before, at least not like this.
    Watching the set of his mouth and his steady stare and feeling the skid of his hands along my sides, it wasn’t so hard for him to convince me.

    We had no script. Nothing had been agreed upon. Only a few words checked off a list and a few scribbled sentences in the comments section of an almost-forgotten questionnaire from a while ago.
    It was enough.
    Jack pushed my shirt up and I raised my arms so he could pull it off over my head. He tossed it away and put his hands back on my waist at once. His gaze followed every curve before going to my face.
    “Are you sure?” His already deep voice had gone even lower. “I can touch you?”
    I took his right hand and slid it upward to just below my breast. We were both breathing hard by now. My nipples felt like iron pegs. Between my legs, my pulse throbbed and thrummed.
    He touched me. I drew in a breath that had no trouble becoming a gasp. Jack cupped my breast in his hand and let out a slow hiss of his own breath. We stayed that way for a moment, until he slid his left hand up to do the same. Then he bent his head to brush his lips over the exposed curves. He straightened and looked into my eyes.
    “Come to bed,” I said. I turned and didn’t watch to see if he would follow. There was no question that he wouldn’t.
    “Take off your shirt,” I said when we got there.
    He did. I stared for a second, then reached to touch the silver barbell through his left nipple. It wasn’t exactly in keeping with the image of an honor-society nerd. It was also pretty hot.
    Jack’s skin humped into goose bumps at my touch, though I knew he couldn’t be cold. I smiled. My finger traced his nipple, then the other one, and finally right down the center of his chest. I stopped just above his navel.
    “Take off your pants.”
    His hands went at once to the button and zipper and in moments he’d pushed his pants down to step out of them. He kicked them to the side. Neither of us bothered to look where they landed.
    Jack’s black boxer briefs rode low on his hips, exposing a hint of dark hair. The front bulged impressively, but he wasn’t quite hard. Not yet.
    “Those, too.” I watched his face.
    He was good at this, much better