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As that question took root, she turned and grabbed his shirt, trying to yank it open and break the buttons. They didn’t go, however, and Eight laughed.
Smiling, Marcella worked them the normal way, and Eight put his own attention to getting out of his boots, socks, jeans and boxers. Apparently, she was going to let him come, once he stripped.
When they were both completely naked, Marcella put her hands on his shoulders and jumped, expecting him to catch her.
He did, but his bum leg wasn’t ready for that move, and it folded at once, taking them both to the floor with a shuddering crash.
They lay in a stunned, panting heap, Marcella sprawled on top of him. Eight sent his attention through his body, checking he hadn’t done any mischief to that fucking leg.
It felt okay.
Now Marcella was moving, pushing herself up on his chest, straddling him, shifting around until she had herself and him where she wanted them. She took firm hold of his rod and dropped herself on it. Eight roared as fresh blood surged through his needy dick.
Looming over him, Marcella fucked him just as hard as he’d fucked her, her body like a piston, surging up and slamming down, her hands moving everywhere, strafing his chest, twisting his nipples, digging in at his biceps.
As his storm surged forth, her third one came on her, too. He saw it in her eyes, black and deep. She leaned forward, her tits pressing into his chest, and rode him hard. Eight bent up his good leg for some leverage and rocked up, countering her rhythm, making it rough.Fuck, it was good. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck.
He came and saw literal fucking stars. Fireworks shooting off behind his eyes like the Fourth of July. Marcella let out a long, keening wail, bouncing on him like she meant to implant him permanently, and then went rigid, her back arched and every one of her muscles quivering.
His was over before hers, and her pussy pulsing around his extremely hypersensitive dick just about broke him. But then she went soft, boneless, and flopped forward, landing on his chest with a sigh.
They still hadn’t said one goddamn word.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marcella opened her eyes and squinted against the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window. She was sore as hell, like she’d done three rounds with a prizefighter, and it took a second before consciousness sorted out the new memories.
Right. Eight. What the fuck.
Wedging her eyes open, she saw she was alone on the bed. Entirely alone—not even pillows or blankets to keep her company. They’d all gone flying in their last round of manic fucking—immediately after which, apparently, she’d passed out.
What thefuck.
Also apparently, Eight had ghosted while she’d slept.
That was probably for the best. Because last night … that had been a colossal mistake.
Right?
Flopping over to her back, Marcella dropped her arm over her eyes and tried to think.
She’d gotten home and, having the place to herself, she’d stripped out of her sweat-soaked leather pants and flouncy silk blouse on the way to the bathroom, where she’d done her usual late-night routine of washing the sweatiest parts at the sink and then scrubbing the makeup off her face. She’d been splashing water on her face when she’d heard a knock at the door. It was past two in the morning, so she’d put her robe on, gone out to the living room, and stood there for a second, wondering who the fuck, and then beginning to doubt she’d heard anything after all. Until the next, softer knock.
Yvonne or Chase would walk straight in. Anybody else would call before coming by. She couldn’t imagine a single person who knew where she lived and would drop by at two fucking o’clock in the morning.
Her first thought, then, had been somebody at the wrong door. She’d tied her robe closed and gone to the door to check the peephole.
And been completely floored to see Eight standing out there.
She should have been furious. She’d wanted to be furious.
But the truth was, something deep and low inside her had fluttered. The past few days, since their dinner at The Roost, and then the soccer game and pizza—maybe since earlier, since that drunken phone call—the shape of Eight in her thoughts had changed. He still scared the unholy fuck out of her, because he suddenly held her son’s happiness and the whole of the life she and Ajax had built in his callused hands, but itmeantsomething that he really was trying. There was a father-sized hole in her son’s life, a hole she’d tried to fill but had failed, and Eight, his father, was really trying to fill it.
Assuming these few days weren’t an anomaly. There was still an excellent chance he’d bail the second fatherhood got a little bit challenging.
Whether he bailed or hung in, he was a seismic change. That was fucking terrifying. Yet sitting with him, watching him listen to Ajax, watching him think about what he said and how he said it, watching himtry, Marcella remembered the days when they were hooking up, when she’d thought there might be a decent man somewhere inside that craggy, rock-hard shell.
She’d opened the door, not sure what he, or she, would say or do. And he’d looked at her like he wasdying, like he was lost in the desert and she’d risen up from the sand with a pitcher of water.
