‘Jesus.’ He groans, dropping his head and burying it between my breasts so I tilt my head back to give him better access. His hands grip my hips, holding me to him, and then he’s undressing himself with the same desperate hunger, pushing his jeans down, stripping his shirt over his head, stepping out of his socks so he’s completely naked.
I take a step back because one thing I haven’t done yet—either of the times we were together—is properly look at him. I was so caught up in what we were doing both times, in the excitement of it, that my observational skills were off kilter, but now I want to see and recognise every damned detail I can.
His chest isn’t just broad and muscled, it’s marked with layers of ink, so many tattoos that I could spend hours decoding them, asking about each, because I’m as sure as anything that there’s a story there.
One in particular stands out and sends a shiver down my spine. Letters in what I imagine must be the Greek alphabet and, above them, a picture of some kind of mythological god. I press a finger to it but he winces, as though it’s fresh ink when it’s not. It’s like I’ve hurt him.
And before I can ask the significance of the tattoo he’s pushing me across the room with his body, his powerful frame guiding me to the bed so we stumble onto it together and all thoughts of artwork flee from my brain. There is no space for them when Holden Hart is on top of me, pressing me into the mattress with his powerful frame. I kick my shoes off—he’s forgotten them—then wrap my legs around him, silently drawing him towards me. At the same time I push up onto my elbows, moving my mouth towards his. He hesitates for a second, looking at me with a question or a doubt in his eyes, then shakes his head gruffly, makes a growling noise and takes complete possession of my mouth, the pressure of the kiss pushing me back down into the bed.
I writhe beneath him, my body needing more than he’s giving me, my pulse firing for some kind of absolution from this delightful torment. His cock is between my legs and I ache to feel him inside of me, just like last time, but he doesn’t move and he doesn’t answer my repeated attempts to bring him towards my sex.
I swear into his mouth and shake my head, breaking our kiss.
‘Fuck me, Holden.’
His eyes flicker to mine, something travelling between us, unspoken but important, and then he stands, staring down at me as his chest shifts with each breath he draws in. I watch as he strides, long-legged, across the room, disappearing through a door for a moment then returning with not just one condom but a line of them.
And lightning strikes through the core of my being because I was so very close to forgetting about protection completely. I’m not even on the fucking pill! What the hell? Didn’t I learn my lesson with Dave? But of course I did!
The few guys I’ve been with since Dave have had to listen to my lectures on safe sex ad nauseum because falling pregnant is a consequence I’m not willing to entertain, ever.
‘Crap.’ There’s an apology in my curse. ‘I was just so—’
‘I know.’
He rips one foil square open and pulls the rubber out, positioning it over his length while he’s watching me.
‘I never don’t use protection,’ I say urgently, needing him, for some reason, to understand, as if that can assuage the torrent of panic which engulfs me.
‘I don’t either. It will never happen, Cora. If you forget, I won’t.’
I swallow because it’s not really good enough, but there’s no point belabouring that point now. I can reprimand myself later.
‘Please...’ I reach for him, knowing he’ll drive those thoughts from my mind too, that forgetfulness is within reach. ‘Now.’
He nods, understanding, dropping on top of me so I laugh. He doesn’t. He’s so serious. So sombre. But in this—sex—we connect, so I wonder what it is in his life that makes him how he is, and I reject the idea of asking him because it speaks of something other than this.
His nudges my legs apart and drives into me. Not like last time. Not tentatively, not slowly. He drives himself into me in a way that tells me he’s been craving this, needing me, just as badly as I have him. I moan as he fills my body, my muscles rejoicing to welcome him back, my back arching. No sooner has he entered me than he begins to move, and he drags his mouth to my breasts, tormenting my nipples in a way from which they’re yet to recover.
I hold him tight and I mirror his movements, my mouth seeking his shoulder first then migrating lower, nipping his collarbone before kissing the top of his pectoral muscle and then, out of nowhere, a mind-blowing orgasm bursts through me, ripping me apart at the seams, obliterating sense from soul. I explode on a rushed wave, all the more potent for how surprising the orgasm was to me. It came out of nowhere and it burned me alive.
I shout his name, uncaring if anyone hears, uncaring if I deafen him, because he deserves it in a way, for being so good at this.
He makes a low rumbling noise, not exactly a laugh but something close to it, and then he’s standing up, grabbing me to follow, kissing me as he grips my hips and turns me over, his hands fondling my breasts, pushing me towards the bed so I’m bent at the hips and then he enters me from behind, his possession absolute, his cock so deep that I feel another orgasm building already. One hand pushes down my body, finding my clit, and he strums me there while his other hand is clamped vice-like across my breasts, driving me towards heaven... God, another galaxy, I don’t know! Except I’m floating out of this room and far from this earth.
Every time he pushes into me my body reverberates and his hand at my clit doesn’t let up so the orgasm that’s building crashes over me and this time he’s with me, his own release marked by the sound of his voice joining mine, a groan forced out of him as he holds me still, both of us allowed to experience every shift and vibration brought on by this. I stay there, my elbows propped on the bed, my eyes focused on the view of Sydney, stars in my eyes and a lightness inside of me.
A happiness and euphoria that must somehow be biologically programmed.
There is no other explanation. Sex releases happy-making hormones and I guess I’ve never really known great sex before because I’ve definitely never had such a palpable shift in my mood as this.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Long enough that my breathing slows and my heart steadies and then he’s pulling out of me, and I have to use all my willpower to stop from crying out at the loss.
I bite my lip to stop an actual sound of complaint. Two orgasms in ten minutes? I don’t think I have anything to complain about, actually. But nonetheless...
I push up from the bed, schooling my features into a bland expression—so as not to give anything away—and force a cool smile to my face. I’m pretty sure my eyes are fevered and my cheeks are red from pleasure but when I turn to face him I offer only the smile.
He’s looking at me as though he wants to say something. But what?