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Pop goes the button of my jeans, and Mac’s hand is down my pants again.
Oh, I definitely missed that. My lids close as my legs go wobbly; the only thing holding me up is the man in front of me.
Why have we held back from each other? I’ve never met a man who can make me melt like this. I’ve never felt as completely cherished in someone’s arms as I do now. I should have begged him to take me here after ice cream. I should have known from the moment I dragged a finger across the handlebars of his motorcycle that I wanted him to fuck me.
But maybe it’s the anticipation over all these weeks that gives his touch an edge. It makes his greedy fingers find every place that makes me shiver. I claw at his pants, pushing them down to his feet while he does the same.
When we’re naked together, still standing next to the bed, Mac pulls me close and ducks his head to the crook of my neck, placing soft, hungry kisses down along the line of my pulse. Then with a swift movement, he picks me up and lays me down sideways across the bed, propping his body down on top of mine.
I love the weight of him. The feel of his skin against mine, his leg notched between my own. I love the way his hand slides from my neck, down my chest and over my breast, all the way down to the curve of my hip.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and I feel it. I feel beautiful, perfect, worshipped for the first time in far too long.
And when Mac slides down the length of my body and hooks my legs over his shoulders, there’s no hesitation or shyness in me left. His lips touch my center, his tongue starts a slow, languorous exploration, and I know there’s no turning back.
It’s only when my back is arched and my hand is tugging at his hair that consciousness returns to my mind, a brief, fleeting thought that reminds me I’ve never come this way, with a man’s tongue between my legs. I’ve enjoyed it, sure, but it’s never gotten me all the way—
An orgasm washes over me, bright and intense. I gasp Mac’s name and he groans in response, but he doesn’t lift his head until my grip on his hair weakens. Then, lids heavy, he looks at my boneless body and moves to his bedside cabinet.
Teeth rip the condom wrapper. Strong hands slide it over his hard cock. Then he’s back on top of me, kissing his way over my chest and up to my lips.
“You taste good,” he growls near my ear while his thighs spread mine wider. “Better than I imagined, and I imagined you’d taste like heaven.”
He wondered what I’d taste like. Need splinters through me. I sweep my hands over his shoulders and roll my hips, wanting more. “So do you.”
A groan rumbles through his chest, as if he’s remembering what we did in his studio in the dark of night. As if that, too—me on my knees in front of him, him thrusting into my mouth—is another thing he spent a long time dreaming about. Then he’s nudging at my entrance, lifting his head to look in my eyes, and giving me a slow, steady thrust home.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to have a man inside me. Or maybe—and this is probably more likely—I’d forgotten that it could feel this good. That it could fill me up and stretch me so beautifully.
And with Mac’s eyes searching my face with every inch he pushes in, watching, recording every expression I make, I let go. I roll my hips, using my hands to push him, guide him, show him that I want more.
His elbows move above my shoulders to prop against the bed, big body arched over mine, and he gives it to me. Long, hard thrusts that make me see stars. Skin plastered against mine, lips dipping down to taste my kiss. My second orgasm rolls through me without mercy, and I only realize I’m crying out when Mac joins me, calling out my name as his hardness throbs inside me.
My orgasm is so intense, it rips the breath from my lungs. I feel him fill the condom and I wish it was filling me, and another shiver of pleasure ripples through me. This could never be wrong. It could never be anything but utterly perfect.
When we stop moving, still connected and intertwined, I let my hand slide down his sweat-dappled back. He lifts himself up to his elbows and looks down at me, eyes unreadable, then lifts himself off me and moves to the bathroom to wash up and dispose of the condom.
For the few minutes he’s gone, I lie in bed and try to make sense of the past few weeks—how quickly I’ve become addicted to his touch—and I wonder if I should pull back. Protect myself from the hurt he could cause me without even realizing it.
I should be taking things slow.
Then Mac reappears, still buck naked with everything on glorious display, and he climbs into bed, turns me ninety degrees so I’m lying the right way on the bed, and tugs the blankets over both of us. One leg is thrown over both of mine and his arm snakes under my head while the other wraps around my waist, totally ensconcing me in Mac.
It’s the middle of the day and the sun is bright as it streams through the half-closed blinds, and being in bed with Mac feels so completely luxurious that I can’t help but sink into the warmth and strength of him.
“I was just wondering if you’d want me to leave, but I’m guessing that’s a no.”
His arm and leg tighten. “It’s a no.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“How long can you stay?”
“Don’t we have a few boxes of pottery to deliver?”
Mac groans, give me another squeeze, then grunts out a “Fine,” before letting me go.
The truth, though?
