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“I’d like to christen a few more spots. If you’re up for it.”
He groans, and yes, it really was me just saying something all playful and teasing in his ear. Because I want more. That was just a taste. A wondrous example of all the things that are possible. It’s a crack in the door that has always been shut so tightly in my face, and I’m sure as heck not ready to stop now. My clit throbs all over again, and even though I didn’t think it was possible to be full of raging hot desire so soon after such a mind-numbing climax, it indeed was.
“I’m more than up for it.”
Atlas winks at me, then his cheeks turn a little pink. It takes me a second to catch on, but then I throw my head back and laugh. “Did you just make a sex joke?”
“I believe I did. A terrible one. I’m sorry.”
“No, I like it. I liked all of it.”
“So, are you up for it?”
I grin at him. “I did thoroughly wipe down the new couch in the living room.”
“Ahh. Then I shall gather my beautiful lady in my arms and whisk her away to the great leather beyond where I will taste her magical pussy again until she believes in happily ever after.”
I titter as he scoops me up in his arms and careens through the kitchen. He can’t walk in a straight line, or maybe that’s just me, and I can’t see straight. Either way, the world is tilting funny, which is okay because sooner rather than later, he sets me down on the couch. Grasping my ankles, he pulls me to the edge, but I stare up at him solemnly.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could taste you.”
“Oh god,” he groans. “Are you sure?”
“More than sure.”
We trade places as I scramble up eagerly. I land on top of him, straddling his hips and arching myself so my hips are canted forward against the bulge in his jeans before I can stop myself. I know what I’ve been missing my whole life.
No, it’s not the big D. Good god. It’s this. This wondrous sensation of connection.
I scoot down and wrench the button of Atlas’ jeans. Now that I asked him if I could do this, I have to say I’m a little intimidated, afraid, worried, and also scared. I’ve never done this before. What if it’s pathetically obvious? I’ve read some extremely smutty things before—yeah, it’s true, but in my defense, everyone usually just skips to those parts and reads them, whereas I read the whole entire book so I can savor it in its proper context because I have total control and insane amounts of patience—but reading isn’t doing, and doing is what counts.
My lady bits twinge in anticipation, and my mouth waters as I pull open the fly on those buttery soft jeans. I didn’t know denim could be so soft, especially denim for guys, but wonders never cease.
I’m at the good part, the black boxer briefs below. Atlas growls as I tug on his jeans, trying to get them the heck off. I growl, too, something dark and needy that rises from the depths of me and spills from my throat.
And that’s when the scritching in the ceiling starts.
“What on earth?” Atlas freezes, then his head cranks back.
My hands freeze on his jeans. Oh no! Please just be the wind. Please just be the wind. Please just be…
Nope, it’s not the wind. Or a really big spider just willing to stay in my ceiling and not bother anyone like a good spider. It’s also not the ghost of my great-aunt, thank the starry starred stars.
“Oh shit, is that a—”
Yup, it is. A raccoon. A huge, mega oversized, chonky trash panda. And he or she comes crashing through the ceiling like it wasn’t just freshly fixed, raining drywall, plaster dust, and fur all over the place.
“Ahhhhh!” I scramble up, grabbing Atlas and tugging him up with me.
“Ahhhhhh!” Atlas yells, echoing me.
He yanks his jeans up so that he doesn’t trip on them, then does the white knight gentlemanly thing and tucks me behind him, using his body as a shield. And the raccoon? That big bundle of gray and black fur lands right on my brand new couch, right on the spot we just vacated, and stares at us with its dark, beady, stunned little eyes.
“It’s kind of cute,” I whisper, peeking around Atlas.
And that’s when it springs at us, and the proverbial hell breaks loose.
CHAPTER 11
Victoria
Sometime between Atlas chasing a streaking bundle of gray and black fur around my living room, trying to corner it and get it out the door, and me unfreezing, getting out of shock, and trying to help, it occurs to me that I can no longer doubt this man is into me. As in, I can stop fantasizing because I have the real thing who’s into me, even if I’m shy, sometimes don’t have my shit together, kind of believe in ghosts of my great-aunt, and like books that smell like grungy basements—those and all other books because I’m not into differentiating here.
