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With his other hand he fumbled open the button, succeeding after the second try. The jacket fell open, revealing the silky royal purple of her top and the rounded peaks of her full breasts. Though he couldn’t see the color of her nipples, their distended shape made him swallow thickly. He wanted to suck on them almost as much as he longed to feel her come around his fingers.
Without thinking he glided two fingers into her clenching sheath and celebrated her groan with a treat of his own. He latched his lips around one hard tip, drawing the flesh deep into his mouth while he kept up the rhythm between her legs. She writhed under him, around him, her hand lifting to the back of his neck to hold him still.
As if he ever intended to stop.
“Sam.” She drew out his name until it was a sigh, an expelled breath of pure longing. He jerked up his head, his own breathing short, just in time to see pleasure mist her eyes. They focused on his face, pupils widening, her hips arching as he gave one final thrust and her body erupted.
Wetness drenched his fingers, her slick heat coating his palm. How he wanted to taste her, feel it run directly from the source over his lips and into his mouth.
She shook against him, digging her nails into the back of his neck. But her eyes never left his, making her orgasm something they both shared.
Sam sagged against her, equal feelings of victory and gratitude surging through him. He’d both won and lost, because he’d made her climax and he’d loved every damn second—and would relive every nuance over and over again—but his cock once more stretched tight against his jeans. And he knew with certainty she wouldn’t be helping him out with that.
But hell, maybe he’d finally be able to help himself again.
Rory lowered her lids to half-mast and gave him another one of her patented looks. If he hadn’t already been stiff and aching, she would’ve gotten him there in two seconds flat. “Thank you.”
“I think you have that wrong.” He laid his lips on hers, not closing his eyes. Staring into those misty gray irises had become a whole new preoccupation. “You’re the one who gave me something. So thank you.”
She cast a pointed glance toward his groin. “Didn’t have its intended effect.”
“Oh yes it did.” He kissed her once more, lingering until he pulled his hand free of her panties. They both sighed a little. “You’re going back to work.”
“Yeah. But I can…” She gave another glance at his obvious discomfort.
“I’m all right.” Was he ever. She had no idea.
He didn’t have any illusions that close to thirty months of pain, then grief, had been healed in an afternoon. Or more accurately, a couple hours. He’d probably still wake up tomorrow as the same morose mess he’d been, but at least now he’d had something to distract him for a while.
He’d had Rory. Not all of her, but enough to fill his fantasies. She’d given him someone to hold in his mind who wasn’t dead. Who hadn’t rejected him for being who he was. Screwups and all.
“If you, ah, have performance issues, that’s not a problem. I can still do stuff. I can still make you feel good if you’ll let me.”
“You already made me feel good, Fowl ’Er.”
She grinned at the use of the name on her license plate. “How do you figure?”
He couldn’t explain it, not verbally. Maybe not at all. But if he could, he’d write it down. If his words made any sense, perhaps he’d send them to her. Or else they’d join the collection of letters and journal entries hidden in his top dresser drawer.
For once, that thought almost made him grin. He didn’t hide alcohol in his room. No, his stash of choice was a fancy pen and leather-bound journal he’d picked up at a bookstore. And a stack of letters he’d never get to send, but kept just the same.
“Not going to tell me?”
He shook his head. “Can’t.”
“Okay.”
“Not won’t,” he tried to explain. “Just can’t. I suck at words. Speaking them especially.”
“You might suck, but not at words.” She lifted her brows and meaningfully drew her fingertip around the wet spot on her top, coaxing forth the rest of his grin. “Trust me on that, Sam. I’d happily read anything you wrote.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Before he could stop himself, he lumbered to his feet and crossed the room to his dresser. He tugged open the drawer, careful to pull just so to avoid the creak, and withdrew the pile of letters wrapped in a rubber band. His life lived in those pages, and here he was handing them over to a stranger.
Except she wasn’t. She was the first person who didn’t seem strange to him in so long. The first person he wanted to get to know better. She might as well learn what she was d
