He shuddered, the dumb thought almost as nuts as the shattering pleasure that had shredded his control.
Lifting onto his elbows, he gazed at her face. She looked away, but not before he’d caught the stunned look in her eyes.
Snap.
He decided it was some consolation that she looked almost as shocked as he felt.
He eased out of her swollen flesh. She winced, making the guilt from that first deep thrust return. She’d been so tight. He was always careful with women. But had he been careful enough?
Rolling off her, he struggled to even his breathing, and get a grip on the renewed yearning. How could the titanic orgasm have barely taken the edge off?
He’d had good sex before. Hard, hot, sweaty, addictive sex before. But never anything this all-consuming.
He was still trying to figure out what the heck to say to her when she scooted towards the far edge of the bed.
With her back to him, she grabbed the sweatshirt off the floor and yanked it on.
Shame washed over him.
‘I should go,’ she said, her voice trembling as she scooped his boxers off the floor and wriggled into them.
He frowned, still trying to get his brain in gear.
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye, Mr Costa.’
What the...?
He lurched across the bed to grab her wrist, before she could shoot off.
‘Mr...?’he said, unable to keep the cynicism out of his voice. ‘Seriously?’
He still had the damn condom on. He was semi-hard, and the soporific afterglow pulsing through his body was making it hard for him to string a coherent sentence together, and she was running out on him? Without even addressing him by his first name?
It was a long time since he’d felt used. But she’d managed it.
She twisted her wrist. ‘I should go.’
‘Not so fast,’ he said, keeping a firm grip on her wrist and swinging his legs off the bed while keeping the sheet over his lap. Because he’d be damned if he’d let her know how much he still wanted her.
He snagged her other wrist and—sitting on the edge of the mattress—tugged her closer, until she was caught between his knees.
She didn’t look happy about it, the vivid blush visible even in the half-light.
She struggled. ‘Let me go.’
‘Chill out, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘You’re not going anywhere until we talk about what just happened.’ Even as he said the words though, the incongruousness of the statement occurred to him.
Since when was he the kind of guy who liked to have meaningful conversations after sex? Not ever.
But he couldn’t seem to control the urge this time. Because something told him, if he let her run off, he might never see her again. And that would be bad.
‘No one calls me Eleanor, my name’s Ellie,’ she whispered as she continued to struggle against his hold.
‘Okay, Ellie.’ He held tight.
‘Will you let me go?’ she said. ‘You big—’
‘Not until you promise not to run off,’ he interrupted her.