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“This is the first time we both know for sure it’s real.”
He freezes, and his smile melts away. But it’s not gone—it’s just changed into something else. A look of wonder. Of—awe. Like it hadn’t occurred to him, not yet, what this would mean.
But then he says, “I knew what I felt was real. I just didn’t?—”
He stops. Cups my chin in his hand. Looks into my eyes, his dark and wild with something I haven’t seen there before. “I just didn’t believe you were mine to have.”
“I am.”
The next kiss is different. Desperate, yes, but careful, too. Like he’s sampling what real tastes like in my mouth. And I’m doing the same thing. It’s good, so good. Everything’s the same—the heat of his mouth, the eager, needy slide of our tongues, his broken, hungry breaths and near grunts, my whimpers and moans. The way our hands grasp and tug at each other’s clothing like we can’t get enough. But everything’s different, too. How real feels. How we feel when we’re real.
How it feels to believe he’s mine to have.
The kiss gentles and slows and becomes an ebb and flow, and my whole body feels like it’s melting. I’m losing definition and giving myself over to him and this and us.
He carries me up the stairs like I weigh nothing, then stands me up next to the bed and peels my clothes off with the care and attention you’d give a work of art. Like he’s sculpting me. He takes his own clothes off, too, and then he is sculpting me, touching me with so much intensity—running a finger along the line of my cheekbone, down my throat, between my breasts, trailing it back up to spiral in toward one nipple and then the other. When my knees buckle he catches me and holds me against him, and he uses those sculptor hands to cup and lift my breasts, ducking his head to kiss and lick, slow at first but then fierce, hot mouth suckling as he keeps one hand behind me so I don’t melt into a pool at his feet.
I can feel the strong, deep tug all the way down into my core, and it’s tightening me, winding me up, getting me ready for what comes next, which feels like it will be too much and not enough all at once. “Shane,” I beg. “I need you.”
“Lie down,” he instructs. “Condoms still in the bathroom cabinet?”
All I can do is nod.
He’s gone and back before I can mourn the loss of his heat, tearing the packet and slipping it on.
“Sword, meet sheath,” I tease. “I think you once told me there was no such thing as a sword that’s too big—just a guy who hasn’t taken his time the way he should?”
His eyes on me are dark and deliberate.
“You need more time?” he rumbles—his turn to tease. “Because I can touch you like this for hours.”
“Hell no,” I say. “Get over here right now.”
He does, covering my body with his. He’s warm, and I love the contrast between the parts of him that are smooth and the parts that are covered with just the right amount of hair—like his thighs, now between mine as he nudges my entrance. He drops his head and begins kissing me again, and this is how it is with us: serious and funny and trivial and profound, laughing and kissing, and we get to keep doing it. No expiration date, no rules, no pretending.
An ache blooms in my chest, and somehow it gets tied into all the other things. The way my mouth hungers for his and the hollow sensation in my low belly and the emptiness in my core that needs him and I say, “Please, Shane. Please.”
We’re kissing and kissing as he slowly thrusts into me. Filling me, stretching me. He moves slowly, almost languidly, and it’s too much and not enough. “Shane,” I moan, and he drops his head to my shoulder and buries his face in my neck. We find a shared rhythm, the hitch and drag of his hips over mine sending friction to my clit, his cock touching that deep, needy spot inside, and I’m winding up to an orgasm that feels like it might destroy me. I know he’s close, too, because when I squeeze my muscles, he pulses in my grip. Neither of us is going to last long, but that’s okay because we can do it again and again and again.
“God,” he says, breaking away. “Ivy.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“It’s so good.”
“I know.”
“I want to do it all night, but?—”
“I know,” I groan as his hips grind up over that spot again and then again, and?—
I’m coming, crying out, pulling him into me, holding on to him with my arms wrapped tight, whimpering his name and clutching him, and then he is too, deep and still and groaning my name.
And when we’re both quiet, he says, with a kind of awe, “And I thought it couldn’t get any better.”
44
Shane
