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Don’t come, don’t come.
“Henry, please. Move.” Abby’s hands run up and down my back, settling on my ass, where she digs her fingernails into the hard muscles.
Still struggling to keep my orgasm under control, I find her lips and devour her sweet mouth to keep her from saying anything else. I can’t take it. It’s too much. If she continues begging, I’ll fucking explode before this begins.
Abby releases my ass, bringing her legs around my waist. Without breaking our kiss, I grab her hands and shove them over her head, pinning them to the mattress. She moans, encouraging me to take her faster, harder, but I can’t. Not tonight. It’s been too long since I’ve been with her. If I don’t keep this slow, I’ll lose control. And losing control with Abby isn’t something I’m willing to risk.
Instead, I begin to fuck her with long, slow thrusts. My hips move evenly, slamming in hard, our skin slapping together, then pulling nearly all the way out before doing it again. Quickly, much too quickly, I feel my release building again. My entire body is on fire, hot licks of flame engulfing every inch of my skin. I move faster, and Abby writhes and moans with each hard jab of my cock as I drive us toward climax.
When Abby stiffens beneath me and her hands tighten around mine, I rotate my hips, grinding my pelvis down. Abby screams, and I swallow the sound with my lips. The viselike grip of her body spasms around my cock, and I plummet over the edge. My thoughts shatter to pieces and my breath hitches as I thrust in one final time, emptying all of my pleasure, all of my emotion, every bit of my remaining soul into the condom.
Sweaty and dragging in deep lungfuls of air, I collapse on top of Abby, knowing she won’t mind. If anything, staying close to her will prolong her pleasure.
After a few minutes, my muscles begin to complain and the scorching heat between us becomes unbearable. I roll over, pulling off the condom to ball it up in a tissue from the nightstand.
Silence pervades the dark room, neither of us having anything to say. And what would we say? That was one of the top three fucks of my life. The other two also belong to Abby. We can work out everything in the morning. For now, I’m content to let my mind rest, and drift away into a deep sleep.
Fuck!
I wake up in a pool of sweat, my pulse racing, my heart working so hard it’s painful. Sitting up, I grab the sides of my head and run my fingers through my damp hair.
Fucking nightmares!
It’s difficult to expand and contract my lungs as I try to calm my breathing before I hyperventilate. Gulping down air, I roll out of bed in a panic, scrambling to find my clothes in the dark. Lightheaded and on the verge of flat-out losing my shit, I pull on my jeans and shirt and stuff my feet into my shoes. As quietly as possible, which seems fucking loud as hell in the silent room, I slide open the closet door and grope around until my fingers find my duffel bag.
When I open the bedroom door, a shaft of light from the hall casts a faint glow across Abby’s sleeping form.
She’ll fucking hate me when she wakes up, but I can’t stay here. I can’t think. All I know is I have to get away. The pictures in my head are suffocating, slithering around my neck and pulling tight like a noose.
I allow myself one last mournful glance at her beautiful face and what we could have had before I close the door and leave.
84
Abby
Three months later
I can see Dax’s head above the sea of photographers as the pack makes their way through baggage claim at LAX. Actually, it’s the forceful way he’s speaking that first gets my attention in the crowded airport.
“Move! Now. Or I’ll pound you into the ground.”
The paparazzi buzz loudly, eager to snap photos and film Dax’s red, scowling face. I bounce on my toes, hoping to catch a glimpse of my best friend somewhere in the mass. The chaos makes my stomach cramp with nerves for her and the baby.
“Back the fuck off! If you touch my wife or daughter, there won’t be a barrister in the world who can save your arse!”
I recoil from the viciousness in Dax’s angry voice. Not that I blame him. Poppy Mirin Davies is only eight weeks old and according to Kate, Dax’s overprotectiveness grew exponentially after the baby was born. I watch his facial expressions and wonder if he’s going to have a nuclear tantrum right here in baggage claim.
Kate, huddled under Dax’s arm and surrounded by three huge bodyguards her husband hired while she was still in the hospital recovering, glances my way and grins. Poppy is swaddled in her arms and covered with a light blanket to shield her face from the swarm of flashes and nosy photographers.
“Keep moving,” Dax grumbles when they reach me. I pivot on my heel and follow them out of the terminal, into a waiting SUV.
“But my car—”
Dax snarls, turning to grimace out the back window at the paparazzi who are scrambling into cars in an attempt to follow us. “I’ll have security come back and get it once we get to the rental house.”
Kate finishes strapping Poppy into a waiting car seat. “There,” she smiles, throwing her hands up in the air. She gives the sleeping baby a kiss on her forehead and slumps back against the headrest. “Don’t ever fly with a baby,” she groans.
I laugh. “She’s gorgeous, Kate. I can’t wait to hold her.”
