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I made dinner, knocked on Celeste’s door, was told, “I’m not hungry!” and ate my solitary meal with the lake closed off from me, not turning on music or the TV because, if something went bump in the night, I wanted to hear it.
I then moved my shit into Bohannan’s room.
Which semi-kinda brought me to now.
Because the boys had come home a half an hour ago.
They’d scarfed down the meals I’d kept warm for them, Jess and Jace rinsed their dishes and put them in the washer and headed to their place.
Bohannan and I went upstairs.
I spit, rinsed and lathered my face, wondering if tonight was orgasm night.
When I emerged from under the soap, Bohannan could be seen in the mirror, walking to the sink beside mine.
He was in pajama pants and nothing else.
The tail was gone in his hair, and it was flopping in his eyes.
I’d never seen his hair like that.
It was delicious.
His pectorals were life affirming.
He had chest hair that covered a good area, but it wasn’t too much.
He didn’t have a full six-pack, but under that fur, I counted four.
The veins running along his bulging biceps instantly became my new religion.
And since moving in with him, I’d used my vibrator, which was quiet, and I’d used it quite a bit…for obvious reasons.
But in that second, I vowed, tonight, I was using it again, even if he was lying beside me. He’d have to listen if he didn’t do something about it.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna fuck you in the bathroom.”
My eyes moved from his chest in the mirror to his face.
I said nothing.
He went still.
I remained silent.
He didn’t move.
I didn’t either.
We stared at each other in the mirror for three years.
Then my upper arm was seized in a firm grip.
I was hauled across the space and my pajama pants were at my ankles.
My panties joined them.
My ass hit the counter between the sinks.
Bohannan hit his knees.
I guessed I’d had one kind of kiss that day and Bohannan was intent to run the gamut, because with no further ado, he spread my thighs and buried his face between my legs.
I was never allowing him to shave off his beard.
Never.
I lifted a bent arm over my shoulder, palm on the mirror, my other hand I clenched in his hair.
I came for him within seconds.
It was catastrophic.
I was not even remotely recovered before I was on my feet, whirled, one of his arms around my belly, holding me up.
He kicked my feet apart with one of his, wrapped his other arm around my chest, and I watched dazedly in the mirror as he drove up inside me.
I also watched as he buried his face in my neck as he fucked me.
The familiar intimacy of his whiskers at my neck and the newfound joy of his big cock thrusting inside collided in a way so profound, I shattered.
I wasn’t Delphine.
I wasn’t Larue.
I wasn’t a writer.
A mother.
An ex.
A woman.
I was a body.
A cunt born to be fucked.
By that cock.
His face came out of my neck, his eyes locked to mine in the mirror, his hand slid down my belly to curl between my legs, and he worked my clit as he fucked me.
His face in sex was an aphrodisiac. Brutish and barbarous.
We stared at each other as we stumbled back millennia. We didn’t know language. We didn’t know culture. We didn’t know manners. There were no rules.
There was instinct.
This wasn’t sex.
It was a rut, natural, evolutionary.
We were born to connect like this.
His finger wouldn’t be denied, his dick couldn’t be, my head flew back, colliding with his shoulder, and his hand at my chest covered my mouth, lightly, to muffle any noise, but there was something delectably villainous about it.
So when I came again, and it was going to be huge, I came, and it was colossal.
There was a cry, but what was happening between my legs was too much for it to be loud.
Mostly it was a gasp. A need. A need to pull in oxygen as everything that made me isolated between my legs, and I temporarily forgot how to breathe.
I clutched him with my pussy, he grunted, then, face back in my neck, cock buried to the root, he growled into my flesh.
Another three years passed as I clung to what we just shared, emotionally and physically.
“Shit,” he muttered against my skin. His lips slid up to my ear. “I hurt you?”
“Not even close.”
His mouth still at my ear, his head tipped slightly so he could look from under his brow into my eyes in the mirror.
God, he was pure fucking sex.
How did I survive without having this with him for two months?
He curled his fingers around my throat.
“That wasn’t what I wanted for us,” he told me.
“I’m not complaining.” A beat of concern, nerves, then, “Are you?”
