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I slowly curled my fingers between his and squeezed with the intensity his body was squeezing me. I braced my weight on my other arm, shaking with strain as I waited for his body to accept me. “You feel incredible, Hunter,” I whispered.
He watched my face, his expression slack with joy, lips curved gently.
I couldn’t hold back. I pulled back and pushed into him again, groaning, swearing. He felt so good, slick and tight, and—I thrust into him again and again—“Fuuuuuuck.”
With every thrust, I pumped his hand and he met my pumps with his own.
I wanted to explore all his sensitive spots, but reaching and holding myself . . . I sank against him, sweaty and wriggly as I nuzzled his neck.
He groaned and I doubled my efforts to make him feel amazing. Like he made me feel.
Hunter’s free hand roamed my back, pressing me against him, and slid into my hair. He whispered against my ear. “More. Lower. Right there. Suck hard.”
His groan rippled over my neck. Our chests lifted and rose together as we found our rhythm, and it enhanced our connection a thousand times over.
My toes pressed against the tops of his feet and I vaguely realized he was taller than me. Taller, broader, stronger—and absolutely divine.
I swiveled my hips, mirroring it with the sweep of my thumb over his.
Close. I was so close.
I snagged his other hand and gently knotted our fingers together, thrusts urgent and messy. I rocked harder and faster into him, hand slowly closing around Hunter’s like a vice.
My orgasm throttled through me, hitting in hard, fast pulsing waves that went on and on.
I whimpered against his neck and Hunter clutched my hands through it. His thigh muscles involuntarily contracted, and I collapsed onto him, kissing his throat. “You came too?”
I felt the wet patch against my lower stomach.
I shifted for him to see. “You must have really massaged my prostate.”
I hid my face against his shoulder. “Did you feel it in your chest?”
He shifted and I slipped out of him, rolling against his side. My hand sank to the hummingbird over his heart. “Yeah,” he said. “I felt it in my chest.”
I tucked my face against his armpit. “That was impossibly sexy.”
Once I’d discarded the condom and cleaned the come from us, I shut out all the lights but the one at my bedside and curled against him.
Hunter smacked my ass as he kissed me. I slipped my tongue over his bottom lip, holding his gaze—and maybe a million butterflies.
He pulled back, breathlessly laughing, and I knew I wanted this to last. Fuck, I’d save the Gazebo, I’d fix things with everyone I’d ever wronged, and I’d beg the universe to let me be good enough for this.
I traced the hummingbird at Hunter’s chest and reveled in the sensation of his lips brushing my forehead.
But across the room on my desk sat pages and pages detailing my worst behavior.
Unsent letters of apology tormented what should have been the best sleep of my life.
Chapter Fourteen
Hunter: Want to sleep at my place?
Me: I’m having dinner with my uncle and Jason . . .
Hunter: Oh, in that case definitely come over after.
I laughed and groaned, deleting my reply over and over.
Hunter: I can only stare at three bouncing dots so long . . .
Me: I’m afraid I might be in a mood.
Hunter: I know what to do in that case.
Me: Funny.
Hunter: I try.
Me: Hey, did you look into that rental agency? I said I’d move out by the end of the month, and I haven’t looked for anything.
Hunter: Maybe we can discuss this tonight, face to face?
I rubbed the end of my phone over my forehead to quell the sickening giddiness.
Me: Sure. Could you send me your lemon pasta recipe?
I kept looking at the clock. Half an hour before Uncle Ben said he’d be home from his day out with Jason. I hadn’t heard them come in last night, nor had I seen them so far today. The scent of Jason’s aftershave lingered in the air and his purple suitcases lay in Uncle Ben’s room.
Every other time he’d stayed, he’d dropped his things into the guest room. Guess there was no need for hiding anymore.
I stared at the ingredients on the counter and followed Hunter’s live stream instructions. I loved that he’d be eating the same meal, a connection between us when we couldn’t be together.
“Why are you running the pasta under water?” Hunter said, squinting from the screen.
“Rinsing it.”
“It’s not rice.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Holy shit,” Hunter laughed. “You’ve been rinsing pasta your whole life?”
“I thought it was the same as rice. To clean the dust particles and . . . germs?”
“Just a moment.” Hunter disappeared, and his kitchen shook in time with a bountiful laugh.
“I can still hear you.”
Hunter returned. “You are adorable.”
