Page 83 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

She glances at the TV clock, breathing harder. “Four minutes and counting.”

The staring contest continues. She squirms in her spot. I think I might be made of that movie’s rocket fuel, waiting to ignite. At minute two, I give in and rub my hand over my thickening cock, a few strokes over the rough denim that do zero to satisfy my growing hunger, but Sadie’s eyes fall heavy at the move. Her neck and chest burn the color of ripe cherries.

My favorite woman, as desperate for me as I am for her.

Then she says, “One minute.”

I don’t move. I have no clue how my heart hasn’t busted through my chest. When I hear the telltale sound of an upstairs door shutting, I do the only thing possible and pounce.

TWENTY-FIVE

I haven’t made out on a couch since college. Not that what we’re doing is any kind of making out I’ve ever done. This is full-throttle, full-body kissing. I’m on top of Sadie, grinding my hips against her writhing pelvis, one of my hands exploring her body while the other tangles in her hair. She alternates between grabbing my ass and tugging at my shirt, our mouths fused and tongues searching, teeth clacking as we go for broke. We’ll probably walk away from this session with couch burns. Neither of us seems to care.

I whisper-growl the occasional, “Fuck.”

She gasps for breath then kisses me harder, her restless thighs squeezing my hips. Her feet find my calves and dig in. I’m so turned on I can barely think, but this is too important to get lost in the moment. For years, I sleepwalked through life, existing instead of living fully, positive I’d never see Sadie again. Now she’s here. We’re all over each other, and I have no choice but to pull back and stare down at her. Remind myself this is real, not one of my painful fantasies.

We’re both breathing hard, our eyes locked like before, but this staring is different. Deeper. Like she can see inside my broken soul, how lost I was without her.

“Sadie.” I’m choked up, falling apart in front of her.

She presses her hand to my cheek. Her chin trembles. “I know.”

She doesn’t. Not really. There’s this energy I can’t contain. Potent waves pushing at my ribs, overtaking my throat. An overwhelming swell of energy—love energy—tearing me apart at the seams, and I can’t do this on a couch. I untangle myself from her and scoop her up from the cushions, holding her against me, unable to give her space.

She kisses my ear, the scar on my neck, my jaw. “You better show me that ab ink soon.”

I smile against the top of her head. “It’s nothing special.”

“Babe, I told you. I like the bad boy ink. It’s hot.”

“You’re hot,” I murmur as I deposit her by the foot of the guest room bed and give her another filthy kiss. I don’t kick the door shut or bang her back into the wall how I might at my place. We need to be quiet. Careful. I want to be careful with Sadie Jones.

Slowly, I close the door until it clicks quietly shut, but she doesn’t let me out of reaching distance. She’s behind me, pushing up my shirt, kissing my bare back. By the time I yank off my top, she’s somehow in front of me.

“Jesus, Des.” She fondles my pecs, brushes her thumb over my nipples and the not-so-awesome penis-looking knife inked on my chest. Her busy fingers bump over my abs, down to the faerie tattoo beside my hipbone. “Why this?”

“It’s a sprite.” Like the rest of my ink, it’s subpar. But I’ve always liked this one. An homage to Sadie’s ethereal qualities. Her delicate cheekbones, like a Tolkien elf. Her pale skin and slightly pointed chin.

“For me,” she murmurs and traces the edges.

My hips jerk, followed by a sharp pulse in my cock that has me clamping my molars, searching for some form of control. I find little.

Her focus moves to the ridges of my abdomen, her hands getting more frantic, exploring the sharp lines of hipbones, dipping below the waistband of my jeans. I’m a minute from embarrassing myself. No joke. I’m teetering on a knife’s edge here, desperate to see Sadie, feel her skin against mine, but so close to coming in my jeans. I coax her T-shirt up and off, revealing sinful red lace. The vixen lowers before I get a good view, moving down to her knees.

Houston, we have a problem.

“Sadie, wait.”

She looks up at me, need and hunger in her searching eyes. “You want to stop?”

“No,” I croak out. “I’m just really close. It’s been almost a year for me.” And it’s you, I don’t add. No other woman could dismantle me in seconds.

“If that’s all”—she gives the button on my jeans an aggressive flick—“then I think I’ve waited long enough for you. Eleven fucking years,” she murmurs, a hint of anger in her tone as she lowers my zipper and discovers I went commando today.

Just in case, I thought. Sadie used to love discovering I didn’t have on briefs. The foresight is working against me.

There’s no barrier between her hot little hands and the hard line of my cock. She yanks down my jeans, moaning as I spring free. I can’t slow this down. Slow her down. I have no choice but to plant my palms on the closed door and brace. My dick’s never felt this heavy, my balls already drawn up tight. She wraps two hands around my length, and I grunt.