She’d caught his clotted tongue, like he’d caught Dillon’s suspicious ears. But he could see it in her face and then she confirmed it by making a fist of his shirt.
He hauled her into his arms, kissed her hard, smashing them together so it knocked the air out of her. His head was full of the aftermath of jealousy that’d near disabled him and his heart was full of relief.
Her hands were under his shirt so he got rid of it. Got rid of her dress and then it was all about her skin and where he could put his nose and mouth, how quickly he could drink her in. The only decision he had to make was what surface to use: the lounge, the chair, the counter. She made it for him, going to her knees to undo his jeans. He got shot of them with his underwear and joined her on the floor.
The rug was soft but she was softer, yielding to his madness to have her. And it was madness. He could not get close enough, get hold of enough of her. She whimpered and writhed and he checked himself, only to have her bite his neck to correct him. She’d bruise him like he was bruising her. They knocked into the coffee table and something bounced and smashed on the floor behind them. They knocked into each other and absorbed the blows as body kisses, as frantic caresses.
She’d opened to him before he remembered he couldn’t be inside her.
“Shit, Cinta.” But she was already so hot, gloved around him.
She clamped her thighs on his hips. “I don’t care. I trust you.”
He grunted and held still. He’d pull out, in a moment, before it was too late.
She was tugging him closer. “I have an implant and I’m clean.”
“Oh fuck.” He could stay. He moved, drove in deeper, and she crossed her ankles behind him and he could really move, hands at her hips, locking her to him.
She arched up, her face tucked into his neck. “Genius.”
He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. She was teasing him; he’d tease her till she couldn’t think straight. He rocked his hips, flexed into her, kissed her till he needed the breath to make it last; make it take all day, all night, make a place outside the world and all its manic cares; create their own existence of endless pleasure and ease.
She was so close, trembling, panting, eyelashes fluttering. “You are so much more,” he said.
She thrashed her head side to side, he stopped her with a hand and her eyes opened on a gasp. “Don’t stop.”
“Breaking me up, Cinta. Breaking me down.”
“Oh!”
“You know how I feel about you.”
Her nails dug into his flank. “No. Don’t.”
Don’t stop, don’t tell? He was incapable of either. “This is how I feel. This is what you mean.” He used his fingers to push her into release and he exploded behind her, taking her shudders and sharp cries and making them part of him, like the new scar under his foot, sudden, surprising, tender and healing.
They held still a long time, their bodies cooling, their kisses gentling with their heartbeats. He needed to move or he’d crush her. There was a faint cry of sirens outside. They brought the world back with all its terrors.
She scrubbed her knuckles over his head. “Before we know if it’s over, tell me you’ll stay one more night.”
He put his face to her breast and licked lazily. “What does it mean if I stay?”
“We could have another bath. I could fall asleep in your arms and be okay about it, happy about it. If you stay I can reheat nachos for dinner. If you stay we could do this again or...” she turned her head away.
“Or?”
“We could make love like last night.”
It was anatomically challenging; he couldn’t kiss her and smile at the same time. “You won’t run away?”
“I’m not running away now.”
But he could worship her, this severe, unexpected woman who let him see her vulnerability.
“Can we do that, Mace? Be this for one more night?”
It was impossible. One more night wasn’t long enough, dark enough, filled with enough stars or the touch of her, but if he could keep adding the nights, one by one, a linear progression, followed by days, a tentative code—it would be the best thing he’d ever written.