Page 47 of Love At Peace

Oh, hell.

Love?

He had to go there? He had to mention the one thing I’d always sought but never found?

My parents hadn’t loved me. David didn’t. I’d given up on waiting for it or counting on it, yet, here I was, looking deep into the heated gaze of a man who wanted my love. Of accepting whatever I could give him.

I couldn’t stay away.

I lunged forward, closing the distance between us. Smashing my lips against his, I reveled in the warmth of his mouth on mine, his grunted exhale of surprise. Then the growl of need.

He lifted his hand to cup the back of my head, holding me close. But again, it wasn’t a controlling maneuver. He wasn’t trapping me.

Because he wasn’t David.

Roarke was a man who wanted my love.

Who had no goals of expecting me to be stuck with him.

Hearing those promises flipped a switch in me. Sure, he could be a liar. Maybe he was dishing out sweet nothings and telling me what he thought I wanted to hear so he could get his way.

In the force of his kiss, with the strength of his hand caressing me, I felt the sincerity of what he said.

I kissed him, making up for every minute we were apart. I crawled into his lap and relished his hug, wanting to be greedy and take all he’d offer. And I tugged at my shirt so he could kiss me everywhere.

Because I needed this one more time.

I had to have him again.

Even if it would be a precursor to a goodbye.

I meant it when I said I couldn’t live near David. I had to keep the option of leaving on the table, no matter what Roarke could give me the illusion of. A happily ever after wasn’t in the cards for me. I didn’t know what was. But right now, right here, I was not stopping until we could both experience that soul-deep and gut-wrenching perfection of coming together again.

“I want you,” he growled between panted breaths as he pulled his shirt off. “Because I love you.”

I furrowed my brow, overwhelmed by his admission as I kissed him again. With my arms wrapped around his neck, I held on tight while he stood. He stumbled as he carried me, but we didn’t fall. He didn’t drop me, and I doubted he ever would.

Because he loves me.

It seemed so surreal and too impossible that I could have found it with him.

Love.

I wanted to believe in it. I wanted to explore the magic of it with him.

All I could do instead was cling to him and savor the burning rush of desire coursing through my body. He lowered me to my bed, following me down. Any bare inch of a gap between would be a crime. His hard chest rubbed against the tops of my breasts, but he spared me from the layer blocking his mouth from licking and sucking on my skin there. My hips pushed up against his, seeking the friction of his erection, and I wrangled with getting his pants and boxers off.

It wasn’t graceful. We fell onto the mattress and rolled, frantic and hurrying to remove anything between us.

As soon as I freed his cock, I wrapped my fingers around the hardness and stroked. It was so stiff, so long, and with the drops of pre-cum at the tip, impatient. He was. But I was ravenous for him to fill me.

No more talking. I was done with the nervousness of reliving my past and sharing details about how I was abused and controlled. I was finished hearing him say such lofty things about loving me.

This was pure, uninhibited lust pulling us together. And the second he finished tugging my panties off, smearing some of the cream that had collected on them on my thigh, I parted my legs and hooked my ankles at his back, bringing my entrance toward him.

He braced himself over me, kissing me harder and dueling with my tongue, then pushed in. Plunging all the way in with a solid, unstopping thrust, he stuffed me with his cock.

I groaned, turning my head to gasp for much-needed air. “Fuck. Roarke.”