Craving Flight Read Online Free PDF Page A

soft, and outrageously masculine. Our bodies press together and I’m clutching the lapels of his suit like I might be blown away if I weren’t. I can’t help but notice he’s hard for me.
    We kiss hungrily until he separates us with a sharp inhale. “I want to do more than kiss you.”
    “I kind of hoped you would.”
    A deep, rumbling sound rises through him, something I’m tempted to call a growl, then he grasps my wrist and leads me back down the hallway, opening the third door and ushering me inside. The bed is large—I’m guessing two twins pushed together to make a king—and neatly made with the lace coverlet from my old bed already draped over it.
    Then his hands are on me again and his mouth, oh his mouth. I reach up to thread my fingers through his hair and when I do, I find it soft and so dense I have to work my fingers into it. He makes an approving sound deep in his throat as I scratch gently at his scalp.
    Soon our touches are wandering to arms, necks, shoulders and faces, abdomens and hips. There’s a delicious frustration to it because we haven’t pressed much farther than what everyone is allowed to see. I want more than that. I want my rights as his wife to his body, to that spot at the top of his head that’s constantly covered by a kippah, but I’ll get to see it soon enough.
    He draws back, his dark eyes wild and his voice appealingly surly as he says, “Turn around.”
    When I do, he unbuttons my dress, his fingertips caressing the skin of my back. I wouldn’t have thought the touch of a man so big could be so deft, but soon he’s finished with the buttons and parts the fabric to reveal more skin.
    I stand there, willing my breath steady though I’m going to start shaking. Or at least clutching my hands in my skirts. What is he looking at? I’m about to ask when he slips the satin over my shoulders and tugs the sleeves down my arms, the remainder of the dress following suit and puddling at my feet.
    Then his hands are clenching around my biceps. While I’m sure he’s seen the upper arms of women around the neighborhood, in his shop even, I doubt he’s touched a woman in this intimate place since Rivka died. Has maybe not touched a woman at all, anywhere.
    I hope I look beautiful to him, standing in my shoes, my underwear and my tichels. Bina had suggested wearing my hair down just for the day, but I couldn’t, just couldn’t. Not even under the veil. She’d offered the alternative of wearing a sheitel, which would be more typical of a bride here but it would have felt strange to me and I didn’t need anything adding to my nerves. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve bucked expectations, nor will it be the last.
    Out of my clothes, I’m more conscious of my physique than I have been for a long time. I don’t have a young woman’s body any more, but I want to please him. He kneels behind me and removes my shoes before drawing my underwear over my hips and down my legs, issuing a grunted instruction of “step out.”
    And here I am. Naked in front of a man for the first time in five years. For the first time since my divorce. I hope with all my heart that this will be the last man who will see me this way. That I’ll be able to give myself to him fully, perhaps even more than he knows. There’s only one last piece of my plumage left to give way and though I see motion out of the corner of my eye, it takes longer for his touch to reach me than I’d expect, as if he hesitated.
    But then his hands are roving the tightly wound scarves, searching for the place to start. He doesn’t ask for help, so I don’t give him any, but let him fumble until he finds the place where the ends are pinned. He unwinds the bound length and lets it rest against my back.
    “I’ve been dreaming of this.” His voice is thick with desire or emotion. It’s difficult to tell which because I can’t see his face. “Every night for weeks, I’ve dreamed of you coming to me. I could imagine your