Page 19 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

“I can do that.” He searches my face once more. “If you change your mind, you say so. I stop. No argument.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“Say it anyway if you do.”

“I will.”

That is enough for him. He lifts me again, easier than he should be able to after a full day of digging, and carries me down the short hall to my room. The bed is made. The window is cracked to the lake. He sets me on my feet at the foot of it and pulls my shirt over my head in one motion. My bra follows. The air is cool; his gaze is not.

“Christ, Kelsey.”

He says my name like it is part of the work he intends to do well. Pulling off his shirt, I put my hands on him the way I have wanted to since he stepped out of that truck. Muscle, heat, a scar at his ribs I have not seen until now. He lets me look. Then he hooks his fingers in my belt loops and brings me against him so I can feel how hard he already is.

“Jeans,” I manage.

“Yours first.”

He drops to one knee without making a production of it and works the button, the zipper, the denim down my legs. I brace a hand on his shoulder. He presses his mouth to the soft skin above my navel, then lower, over cotton, and the sound I make would embarrass me if I had any pride left that was not currently occupied.

“Marc …”

“I know.” He stands, strips the rest of his clothes, and takes me down onto the quilt with his weight on his forearms. I expect him to rush. He does not. He kisses my throat, the slope of my breast, the place his hand spanned under the water two days ago. When his mouth closes over me I arch hard enough that he has to hold my hip still.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, not unkindly.

“Don’t you dare be smug.”

“Too late.”

I laugh, breathless, and then I am not laughing because his hand slides between my legs and he finds out exactly how little patience I have left. He watches my face while he touches me. That is the part that undoes me more than the skill of it. He wants the evidence. When I gasp for air, he kisses me through it, keeping his hand where it is until I grab his wrist.

“Marc, I want you in me,” I say. “Now.”

He reaches for his jeans, finds his wallet, the foil packet. The pause is brief and responsible and somehow as intimate as the rest. He rolls the condom on, moves between my thighs, and waits with the head of his cock against me until I nod.

He pushes in slowly enough that I feel every inch. My body stretches around him as my hands fist in the quilt. He swears once, low, and goes still when he is seated.

“All right?”

“Yes. It feels so good.”

Marc’s first strokes are measured, almost polite, until I wrap my legs around him and pull. Then the civility leaves. He drives into me with the same focused force he used on the conduit. Deep and sure, a rhythm that steals the air from the small room. One hand braces beside my head. The other grips my thigh and hitches it higher so he can get closer.

“Look at me.”

I do. It is almost too much. He is right there, eyes dark, jaw tight, watching me take him. I have never been looked at like this while being fucked. It makes me greedy. I tell him so, words I do not use in daylight, and his control slips another notch.

He changes the angle. The new depth wrings a sound out of me that I would have swallowed if I could. He likes that. He does it again. When I start to come he holds me through it, talking low against my temple. He’s saying my name, how tight I am, how long he has thought about this … until I shake apart under him.

He follows with a groan that sounds dragged out of him, hips flush to mine, forehead dropped to my shoulder. For several breaths neither of us moves. My heart is trying to leave my chest.

Marc shifts his weight so he is not crushing me and stays inside me. His thumb traces an idle line along my cheekbone, gentler than everything that came before it.

“Still with me?”

“Yes.” My voice is wrecked. “Very with you.”

He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Good.”