Children. Yes, plural. Because we won’t stop at one.
“Now who’s staring?”
“And staring is rude, right? We’d better get to the touching.”
“Let’s not try the stairs,” she says, taking my hand and leading me into the other room. Once there, she strips me from my clothing, knocking my hands away as I try to help. Shirt buttons, my belt, she makes quick work of it all, forcing a wash of goosebumps across my skin as she pulls my shirt free from my pants.
“What on earth does it take to get a body like this?” she whispers, sliding her hand across my chest. Her pinkie finger brushes the flat of my nipple, and I shudder like a kid with his first woman.
Grabbing her hand, I bring it to my mouth, pressing my teeth over her knuckles. “To get this body, you need to be called Mrs Phillips.”
“Like your mom and your brothers’ wives?” she asks saucily.
“Like the woman under me.” And with that, I press her back against the couch. The velvet nap kisses my knee as I follow her down, brushing teasing kisses to her mouth. Her dark hair fans like a cloud as I nudge myself between her legs, the head of my cock swiping through her slickness, aching at the contact.
“Tell me you love me,” I whisper, reaching down to fit the crown against her, relishing her breathy little gasp. I love the way her thighs widen, preparing to accept me.
“I do.” She presses her palm to my cheek. “Roman, I—”
I cover her mouth with mine, and she groans as she tastes herself from my tongue. Her reaction is so fucking heady, like I need turning on anymore.
“The only thing I need to know is that you love me.”
“Yes, I do, but—” Her hands press against my chest as though she’d somehow like to talk this out. So I take them and pin them above her head.
“Right answer. Not buts. Loving now, talking later.”
Fuck. She’s so wet and inviting as I push inside, her knees coming up to grip my thighs. I lose my mind a little once I’ve sunk to the hilt, the channel of her body drawing me farther in.
“You feel like magic.” Dark, womanly magic. The kind I’ll happily submit to as I pull back and sink into her again with a solid thrust. Again and again as her body moves with me, taking all I have to give. Deep thrusts and short jabs, I lose myself in her again and again.
“See how we fit,” I rasp, feeling her contract around me as I anchor my fingers against hers. I undulate above her, torturing myself with the sensation, the visual of losing myself to her.
A dark, captivating ache begins to build in my spine, my balls drawing tight, my body falling for the rhythms of hers.
“Yes, yes!” She chants the litany of her pleasure as I begin my own outpouring of love.
Mine—
You feel—
Never leave—
My rhythm deepens, twists, and drags my mind to the kind of darkness there is only one escape from.
38
Kennedy
PRESENT
ALL FALL DOWN
“Do you have a mortgage on this place?” Roman points at the ceiling of my bedroom as his other hand absently trails across his chest, completely unselfconscious about his nakedness. “Or the business?”
“I don’t know how to tell you, but talking about mortgages is not suitable pillow talk.”
“I’m being serious,” he says, coming up off the bed like Poseidon on a wave. A wave that crashes down, pinning me between his arms and legs. I can’t help the little excited noise that escapes my mouth or the way my eyes devour him from the eyes down because he has the body of a Greek god, too. His chest is a study in deliciousness. His biceps are thick and defined, lines and ridges, and those muscles that seem almost like arrows that point at some already very obvious parts of him.
“See something you like?” he says in a comically low tone.
“That was marginally better.” I pat his cheek sympathetically. “Finance is just not sexy.”
“Kennedy.” The way he says my name makes me shiver, and as I raise my eyes to his, those blue eyes are serious. “You’re going to have to get used to me taking care of you.”
“That’s very sweet.” I take his beautiful face in my hands. The rasp of his stubble is both thicker and darker. And that face he’s pulling? He looks like a dissolute pirate. My very own dastardly Captain Phillips.
“Sweet?” he repeats, unimpressed.
“Yes, sweet. But you don’t need to take care of me. At least, not financially. Holland signed over her shares in both the house and business last year. She did it for Wilder, to make sure he has a good life.” And because she felt guilty for leaving me to find herself. But she’ll be back, and I’ll be ready to pay her back someday.