Page 128 of First in Line

“I didn’t sleep enough, but you know that because you’re to blame.”

He chuckles and gives my shoulder a soft peck, his tongue grazing the skin, as if to buy my forgiveness. He then resumes his exploration, leisurely seeking every available inch.

A little more awake, I ask, “Why are you still here?”

“Ouch …”

“I mean, I thought you’d disappear in the middle of the night, like last time. Aren’t you supposed to be in Austria? For media day?”

“It’s for the drivers who race.”

That finishes waking me up, but when I try to sit up, his hold tightens to keep me lying down against him. “Jax, you can’t skip the whole weekend.”

“Oh, but I can,” he counters, hand slithering down my front.

“You’ll get in serious tr—” My protest dies as his fingers find their target between my legs. I shiver against him, releasing a shaky breath.

“It’s already arranged,” he explains. “I’m skipping this race to help with the muscle fatigue in my left leg. Mark, my physiotherapist, and the committee all agreed.”

“How much of that is a lie?”

“To you? None of it. To them? Maybe half. My leg hasn’t gotten so bad that I can’t race. But the rest, along with a good plan to recuperate and be ready for the next Grand Prix, will do me good. It might prevent things from getting worse later in the season.”

It sounds like he’s weighed everything already, but I still feel bad about it.

“Your placement. You’ll lose it,” I protest again.

His fingers lower, grazing the seam that’s been growing wetter since I started waking up.

“Actually, I’m so far ahead of everyone that no matter who wins, I’ll still have the most points,” he counters.

A trembling moan pours out of me as one of his thick fingers dips in. I lift my knee a little, allowing his hand more access, and it sinks deeper.

“Is this—is this how you plan on making this work? Skipping entire Grand Prix weekends?” I struggle to ask, my voice distorted by pleasure as he pumps his fingers in and out.

“If I have to, yes.”

He must consider the debate over because he lifts himself and claims my lips, his hand still working its magic between my legs. Ugh, he’s always been so good at distracting me.

He keeps going until I’m drenched enough for his fingers to make a wet, rhythmic sound, and for my moans to come in the way of our kiss. Then, he adjusts himself behind me, pulls his hand away, and uses it to align himself with my needy entrance.

My body still faces away from his, but the upper part of it is twisted. It allows us to keep our eyes locked as he slowly enters me, his hot, steely length stretching me until I’m filled to the brim. When his hips meet my behind, I push back for more, desperate to have all of him.

“So greedy,” he appreciatively rasps. When he slowly pulls out before thrusting back in, my lips part with a sigh, shivers coursing all over me.

I’ve been trying to figure out why intimacy with him is always such an incredible experience. But somehow, the answer has eluded me. He knows my body more than I know it myself, and he is clearly well-endowed. However, I know in my heart that with any other man, those things wouldn’t be enough to conjure the fireworks of sensation he so effortlessly subjects me to every time.

It’s because it’shim, my Jackson, the man I’ve been in love with for half of my life. I will never find this level of perfect harmony with anyone else ever again. And now that I have been reacquainted with it, I don’t think I could ever go back.

He’d better make this work, or I’ll spend the rest of my life missing him, this, and us.

I’m not sure if it’s because it’s the morning or because this is what he wants for now, but his pace is gentle, lazy, and tender. We aren’t just having sex. We’re making love. And despite the unhurried motions, I find it utterly overwhelming.

When we get too heated under the covers, he flings them open, revealing our joined bodies. We’ve always looked so good together, with his golden-brown skin against my pale complexion. And the way he’s all carved shapes and hard lines, while my body is smooth and soft all over. The contrast between us is a magnificent sight, and I can never get bored with it.

I follow his lead, returning each of his thrusts with a push of my own. His leg holds mine open, and my hand goes to his thigh, nails digging into the taut muscle to tug him in a little harder every time. Loud breaths and soft moans fill the space, along with the rustling of sheets under and around us. And when the pace picks up a little, the slow smack of our skin joins it all, but our increasing moans almost cover it.

My breasts jiggling with every motion is too much temptation for him, so he leans to wrap his eager lips around a pink tip. He sucks, and nibbles, and teases, never halting his momentum. The combined sensation of it, along with his hand still flicking between my legs, and his impressive girth pumping inside me, are rapidly working me toward an earth-shattering orgasm. My hand on his thigh is so tightly clamped that I’m sure it has to hurt. But he doesn’t let it distract him, his precise motions unwavering.