“I didn’t even get to the good part,” she answers in a low, dreamy tone. “It’s your kiss that did it.”
I run my finger over her clit, and she whimpers, then bites her lip.
“No lip biting,” I say, then push the wet fingers into her mouth. She pulls them in and sucks them eagerly, like they’re my cock. And I lower my face until I bury it between her soft, sweet thighs and lap her up.
She moans, long and low. The sound is muffled against my fingers, and I thrust them in and out of her mouth as I eat her out. She’s so hot down there, so addictive. I can’t get my fill.
The muscles in her legs quiver, then tighten. She arches her back as she comes against my mouth, sucking my fingers even harder in her climax, like she wants me to let go, too. I reach for the little cabinet behind her and pull out a condom. Ever since she moved in, I’ve stashed boxes of rubbers in every room in the house, just in case.
Once I’m covered, I pull her down from the armchair and onto a thick rug, then bury my face in the crook of her neck and glide into her searing depths. I whisper filthy words in French as I thrust into her.
She stills, then goes wild. I take her hips in my hands and angle her so she can get maximum pleasure out of each thrust.
“Oh my God!” she screams, but I continue to bang into her, showering her with more filthy phrasesen français, just like that scene fromThe Magic of You, which she’s read at least twice since she moved in.
When she sobs out again, I spurt into her, kissing her like the world is ending, and this is the only moment we’re allowed.
She shudders for a long time. When her breathing finally settles, she threads gentle fingers through my hair. “What was that about?”
“Mmm?”
“All the French stuff.”
“Just a fantasy I thought you might like. I saw you reading it a few times.” I don’t mention that I examined her notes and highlights. I don’t want her to start hiding the books with her favorite sex scenes. “I wanted you to experience it.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Well, thank you. But it’s just a silly book.” There’s a tinge of resigned sadness in her voice that I hate.
“A book that says a woman deserves to be loved and worshiped the way she is.” I kiss the spot on her chest, right where her heart beats. “Doesn’t sound so silly to me.”
“It isn’t realistic.”
I raise my head and look into her eyes. “If realistic is being treated like shit and feeling like you’re going to die alone no matter what, Molly,fuck reality.”
She gasps. I’ve never spoken to her like this before, but this is too important to sugarcoat.She’stoo important.
“Happily ever after, my Molly. We aren’t settling for anything but happily ever after.”
Chapter Forty
Molly
Happily ever after.
Nicholas said we aren’t settling for anything less, but I struggle to picture what that is. Maybe I’m weird, but I’ve never given really concrete thought to what the couples look like after I’m done with my books. I mean… The authors say they’re going to be happy. They’re probably going to get married and have babies and stuff.
Since I have a little downtime this morning, I send a quick text to Georgia.
–Me: Hey, what does HEA mean to you?
–Georgia: The couple gets together. Why?
–Me: That’s it? The couple gets together, and…bam, HEA?
–Georgia: I mean, if you want to dig deeper, maybe all the bad guys go bald?
I snort. Owen and Dana going bald would be both comically and cosmetically just.
–Me: Never mind. Let me ask some other people, too.
