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“Do what?”
“Nothing more than sex. Ever.” The words are rough and soft. Confessional.
“So…no dinners. No dates. No snuggling or kisses…or baths.” I brush my lips along his jaw. “You don’t want those things?” I whisper over his skin.
I feel him shiver before he shakes his head. “Not good at it.”
“I’d argue that on baths.” I smile a bit as I feather a kiss over his collarbone. “You’re sitting up. Staying afloat. In fact, you’re keeping me afloat. Without support, I simply sink. Quite like a stone.”
His mouth curves up on one side. He’s still got his eyes closed, so he doesn’t see me coming as I kiss one dimple, then the other.
“Let me tell you something, Carnegie.” I wait a beat until his eyelids lift. His mouth is still quirked up a bit as I say, “I’m not like your other girls.”
“How so?” He’s smirking, despite the heaviness that’s clinging to the rest of his face.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re like. But I’m not like them. I can sense all your malarkey.”
He grins—just a flash, but it’s radiant. I run my hand down his arm till my hand meets his, and then I squeeze. “I think you’re romantic. It’s your secret, I believe. I can’t imagine you dismissing me after what we just did. But you’re saying that’s what you do normally?”
He casts his eyes away from mine, looking at the flowing faucet. After a time, he says, “It’s different there. Sometimes they want that, too.”
I regard him with my eyes narrowed, my head tilted. “You need women in your bed and bath. You hate to be alone.”
He makes a skeptical face—a bit exaggerated, silly—as a cover for the weight of things. “What makes you say that?” Now he’s looking at me again.
“You’re a barfly. And the whole world knows you throw massive parties. Besides that, I feel it.”
His lips press together, seeming tremulous despite the way he widens his eyes and arches his brows; he’s trying for a silly a face, a much more casual impression.
I lean in, sighing as I rest my cheek on his shoulder. “In any event, I’m not leaving your bath or bed. Tell me you don’t want me to,” I whisper.
His cheek rests on my hair. I hold my breath as he inhales slowly, perhaps deciding if he’ll give me honesty. After a long second, he says, “I don’t want you to.”
He takes my face in his hands, peering into my eyes before kissing me. His mouth is hard and firm, his tongue forceful and smooth. We kiss until my hands are squeezing his shoulders. I need air, but I don’t have the self-control to pull away.
When finally we part, I gobble down a breath or two, and then I’m laughing.
“What’s so funny?” His eyes burn into mine.
“I’d rather kiss you than breathe.”
I run my hand down his side, and he cups my breast. A moment later, he gathers me in his arms, slowly stands, and, holding me to his chest, grabs a towel, which he folds around me.
He grins down at me as he carries me to the bed, where he tucks me in and delves under the covers. He rests his cheek on my thigh, and I stroke his shoulder then his bicep with my foot. He kisses the back of my knee. I’m panting as his mouth crawls upward.
Then his lips and tongue are where I’m warm and needy. And for all my talk—all my bluster in the tub—I’m reduced to whimpering. I come so fiercely, I’m near-instantly tugged under afterward.
I feel him situate beside me, pulling me against his chest. With no ado, he folds himself around me, and we sleep.
Five
Declan
I told her I wasn’t going to jump, but that’s not completely true. I didn’t want to jump. I fall asleep with that thought in my head and sleep a few hours before waking. I lie still for a while longer, my body curved behind her smaller, softer one, my lips wanting to kiss her hair—although I don’t.
At five, when I don’t think I can keep from rubbing my erection against her ass, I climb out of bed and start on pancakes. While I stand there flipping them, I think that it feels like I did jump. Not in the way of the relief I think that would be—I feel like I’m in a free fall.
Should I be fucking her? Obviously not. It’s been high school since I fucked a virgin. There’s a certain type of woman I go for back home, and it isn’t never-been-kissed. I prefer the older ones, the one-night-standers who tell me from square one all they want is a night full of Homer. Or the married ones whose husbands fuck around my circle, so I know it’s okay to take them for a quick spin out of wedlock; there are no expectations.
