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“Oh my God.”
The chauffeur opens the door, and Ford nods toward the cottage. “Sebastian’s waiting for you.”
I gape at him, struggling for words. Struggling not to cry. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. You deserve to be happy, and from what I hear, this place makes you happy. He makes you happy.”
Overcome, I embrace him. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” he says, voice strangled. “I’ll be back Sunday morning to pick you up for the exchange.”
I don’t want to think about the next month, the next man, the next burden of blind discovery that comes with the introduction of a new house. For the next thirty-six hours or so, I refuse to think of the future at all.
“You’re a good guy, Ford Stryker,” I whisper, placing a kiss on his cheek. “This means more to me than you’ll ever know.” With that, I slide from the limo and make my way toward the cottage.
The door is unlocked, and after I let myself inside, the familiar dark interior greets me, lit only by the glow of candlelight and burning logs in the fireplace. I stall in the foyer, and I’m taken back to the month of Leo—as if I’m not shivering, hair damp from the autumn rain. It’s a vivid sense of déjà vu, and so real that I almost expect summer to exist on the other side of the door.
The heat of the sun on my skin.
The sweet scent of foliage in the air.
The discovery of love and laughter.
As I step into the living room, I sense him behind me before the weight of his touch glides down my arms. He tugs me against him by the hips. Desire flares, shuddering through me with the force of a summer storm.
“I need you,” I say in a breathless whisper.
With a low growl, he cups my breasts. “You’ve got me.” His lips land on the sensitive spot below my ear, tongue hot and wet and hungry on my skin.
He shuffles us toward the sofa—the closest place where two people can get horizontal. We fall onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs, and desperation drives him as he pushes my dress out of the way. He shoves a hand down the front of my panties, finding me slick and ready.
“So fucking wet.” As his fingers dip inside me, he watches me with hooded eyes, the glow from the candlelight dancing across his features. “Feels like forever since I’ve touched you like this.”
“Sebastian.” His name is a breathless cry as my chest heaves against his.
“I know, princess.” His forehead lowers to mine, and I spread wider to accept him as he thrusts those fingers deeper. He strokes me with the perfect rhythm, the perfect depth.
About to burst at the seams, I hold his cheeks, urging him back an inch until our eyes meet. For several minutes, we say nothing. Do nothing except feel. It overwhelms me, the bond between us, the connection. Unfettered emotion stings my eyes.
His brows furrow. “Don’t cry.” He starts to withdraw, but I arch into him, my body chasing his hand.
“Don’t stop.”
“Why are you crying?”
“Because it feels so good.”
“Then take what you need from me. It’s all yours.”
“Kiss me.” I reach for his mouth, my lips parting to invite the conquer of his tongue, the taste of delirium, the intimacy only he has the power to give me. His steady licks match the tempo of his fingers, and I moan with each slide of those digits.
He breaks the kiss, and his ocean eyes search my face. “I need to watch you come apart, but Jesus,” he groans. “You’re sweet on my lips.” The battle is lost, and he comes back for more, one hand tangled in my hair, his mouth devouring mine as he pumps his fingers between my thighs. Determination infuses his quickening strokes, white hot need searing the air. It throbs between us, constricting the oxygen in the air.
I contract around his fingers, and my horse cries fill the room.
“Goddamn, princess. That’s my girl. Come all over my hand.”
The release is indescribable, intensified by our time apart. But it’s still not enough. It’ll never be enough as long as he feels this good against me. Spurred on by the rush of endorphins and the frenzied-state of my mind, I shove him to his back and crawl over his sprawled body.
