I move with him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, our lips barely brushing, tongues almost idly touching. I take his air, and he takes mine.
“So good.” He shivers, surging into me. “You feel so damn good. More. Give me more.”
I grip his shoulders, bite his upper lip, lick it. Lust has made me feral.
His hands slide to my butt, gripping me there, and the tip of his finger toys with the entrance to my ass.
It’s all too much. My forehead rests against his as I pant and ride him, claimed, owned. He has me.
My orgasm is a long roll, picking up speed and rushing over me with such force that I can only cling to him, cry out, and move against him in a messy, desperate way. I lose sight of everything but that feeling.
And then his arms are locked around me, crushing me to his chest as he thrusts into me hard, fast, frantic. I love the sounds of his cries, the way he groans like he’s dying and somehow waking up all at once.
For a long moment, we lie limp—me against him, Killian against the seat. Deep within me, he still pulses, and my body squeezes him in response. Killian chokes out a weak laugh and snuggles me closer. His lips find my cheek; I’m too wrecked to turn my head and kiss him back.
“Holy hell, woman,” he says against my damp skin. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Holy fucking hell.”
“I know,” I whisper. It’s never been this way. And I know without doubt that Killian James isn’t just an addiction, or a summer fling. He’s becoming my everything. And that is both exhilarating and terrifying.
Killian’s place is about what I expected for a rock star who values his privacy. It’s a penthouse in a converted church just south of Washington Square—a mix of sleek modern and old-world style with soaring ceilings, dark wood floors, glass walls, and massive stained-glass windows. The rooms are open and airy, a large terrace taking up the whole back. In his white kitchen, beneath a vaulted and beamed ceiling, he makes us cubanos, a sandwich of roasted pork, ham, swiss cheese, mustard, and dill pickles, grilled until it all gets hot and gooey.
“Why didn’t I have you cooking for me before?” I muse before taking another huge bite.
He gives me a satisfied look around a mouthful of sandwich. “And miss out on your cooking? No way. I do make a mean ropa vieja, but that takes time.”
“This is perfect.”
We eat and drink icy beers. It’s two in the morning, and everything is quiet and calm. His place is huge, but here with him, it feels cozy.
“Do your parents still live in New York?” I ask him.
“From October to December.” Killian takes a swig of his beer. “Right now they’re on their yacht, probably docked in Monaco or Ibiza depending on Mom’s mood and Dad’s business deals. If Mom wants to party, it’s Ibiza. If Dad has a deal, it’ll be Monaco.”
“Wow. I mean, I’ve read about lifestyles like that but to actually live it...”
“My dad grew up with polo ponies. He went to Trinity at Cambridge. His ‘chums’ are royalty. It’s his normal.”
I can only stare at Killian. His shoulders are tight, his gaze distant. “It’s your normal too.”
He sets his beer down and meets my eyes. “I was always stuck between worlds. Staying with my abuela, traveling with my parents, the band. To be honest, Libs, I have no fucking idea what normal is. But I want it.”
The intensity of his stare, the way his voice dips lower, makes me take his hand and squeeze it. I want to give him normal, but I don’t know how. Not when I’ve left my normal behind to be with him.
I help him load the dishwasher when we’re done. Though he had a quick shower before making dinner, he’s still shirtless and wearing worn jeans that hang low on his slim hips. His bare feet are pale against the ebony floorboards.
I’m barefoot too, and, for some reason, that makes this feel more domestic. As if we both live here.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my neck as I put the last plate in place and catch him watching me. “What’s that look?” I ask, because his expression isn’t one I’ve seen before. It’s light, and yet something is going on behind those dark eyes.
He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip. “Nothing. Just missed doing this with you.”
“This” being the dishes. He always helped me with them when we were at my home. It became a ritual: Killian would watch me cook and keep me entertained with stories and anecdotes, we’d eat, then we’d clean up together.
“It feels right, you know?” he says, that soft smile still in his eyes.
Just like that, I need to hug him. I step close and wrap my arms around his waist. My lips press light kisses to his chest, because, really, I can’t be this near and not kiss him.