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“Please fuck me. Now.” It’s a demand if I’ve ever heard one and it revs me up even higher.
With a groan, I pull her hips up and back, until she’s kneeling with her torso pressed against the sheets. Then I reach between her legs, sliding a finger deep inside of her to make sure she’s still warm and wet and ready for me.
She is—God, is she ever—and, combined with her words, it’s all the invitation I need.
I take a moment to fumble myself out of my pants and into a condom before kneeling behind her on the bed. Then, with my hands shaking and my stomach knotted with lust, I sink slowly, carefully, inexorably inside of her.
She feels amazing, smooth and silky and so hot that for a second I fear she’ll burn me alive. Or maybe that we’ll burn each other. It’s a risk I’m willing to take, though, because nothing has ever felt this good. With her wrapped around me like a fist, her sleek body trembling against mine, I want nothing more than to stay like this forever. Nothing more than to be inside her and come and come and come.
“Garrett,” she gasps, her hands clutching at my hips. “Please.”
I press forward, thrusting deeper, then rest my cheek against her temple. “Is this okay?” I ask through gritted teeth, breath coming in harsh pants and heart beating wildly as I try to take it slow. Try to make sure Lola is as into this as I am.
“Yes!” she cries out. “Yes, yes, yes.” The words are a series of tortured gasps as she presses back against me. She’s trembling, shaking, her face moving back and forth against the bed as she rocks forward and back in an effort to get me to go faster, deeper.
It’s all the confirmation I need. I begin to move with slow, careful thrusts that have me gliding in and out of her. She feels so good, this feels so good, that I can barely keep it together as the pleasure builds and builds and builds.
“I need—”
“What?” I demand, sliding a hand beneath her hips to stroke her stomach, her mons, her clit. “What do you need?”
“You,” she gasps even as she reaches around and grabs my hips. She pulls me forward, hard and deep.
It’s unexpected and amazing, and combined with the way her voice goes all low and husky when she says, “You, you, you,” and comes one more time, it shatters the last vestiges of my control. I slam straight over the edge, ecstasy swamping me, dragging me down, tingling along my every nerve ending until all I can think of is Lola. Until all I can smell and touch and taste is Lola.
It’s the first time since the kidnapping that nothing hurts—not my body, not my head, not my soul. It’s a glorious feeling and one I don’t want to let go of, any more than I want to let go of her.
Chapter 18
Lola
When it’s finally over, when our breathing levels out and our bodies stop shaking, we doze a little. It’s actually more like lying pressed against each other in a total stupor, but what can I say? After what just happened, we’re both a little shell-shocked. Or at least, I am.
I mean, sure, I guess I knew—on a purely instinctive level—that being with Garrett would be good. But what just happened wasn’t good. It wasn’t great. It’s so far beyond any superlative I can think of that it’s as if I need a whole new language to describe it.
La petite mort, like the French call it, maybe. The little death. Except it felt a whole lot more like living—really living—than it did like dying. Even if, fifteen minutes later, I still can’t move. Still can’t do anything but lie here and think about how good it feels to have Garrett’s long, lean body pressed against mine from shoulder to hip.
I know I should probably be alarmed at just how good this feels, but right now I’m too wrung out to care. And too satisfied, my body little more than a pile of warm, happy goo.
Garrett recovers before I do. Big surprise there. The man is like a machine—in the best possible Terminator kind of way (but without the intent to wipe out the human race, of course). He rolls over, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me against him. Normally, I’m not a spooning kind of girl, but there’s something about being the little spoon to his big spoon that just feels right.
Because the thought sets off yet another warning blip inside of me, I choose to ignore it. I’m too blissed out right now to worry about the future, or getting in too deep, or any of the other things that would normally send me running for the hills after sleeping with a guy. But no other guy has ever given me four orgasms in an hour, either. And while I enjoyed all four of them while they were happening, they have kind of zapped my will to ever move again.
At least until Garrett’s stomach rumbles. Loudly.
It’s pretty much the most unromantic sound ever, but it turns out to be exactly what we need. We both crack up and the tension I was barely aware of dissolves.
“Can I make you something to eat?” I ask. “And by ‘make,’ I mean assemble a sandwich, as that’s pretty much all I’m equipped to do. Well, that and scramble a couple of eggs.”
“I’ll take the eggs,” he tells me after he drops a long, smacking kiss on my cheek. “But I’ll make them. You stay here and rest.”
“This isn’t the old days, you know. I promise not to have an attack of the vapors at the sight of a naked man in my kitchen.” I shoot him an amused glance over my shoulder.
“I feel like if you were going to have an attack of any kind, it would have been three orgasms ago.” He gives me another kiss—this one more sweet than smacking, and I can’t help melting into it a little. Can’t help melting into him.
“Nobody likes a braggart,” I tell him even as I pull his arm more tightly around my waist and hang on.
“Looks like you do,” he answers. “And, by the way, telling the truth isn’t bragging—one should never be ashamed of excelling.”
