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“I won’t.”
I hiss when she yanks at my hair, as frustrated by constantly reassuring me as I am with myself for asking. She gets us back to kissing, telling me talking isn’t on her agenda right now or, more to the point, soothing me, and I’m here for it. But her mouth’s suddenly gone from mine and I stare into her eyes, a little surprised, a lot dazed, my hips now working on autopilot, grinding into her, taking all of the pleasure.
“Please believe me,” she says, her voice broken and rough.
Oh baby, how I wish I could.Frustration lands, and I try so fucking hard not to let it, but my body has taken on a mind of its own and it wants release. Ava gasps, turning away from me, and I stare at the back of her head, my face strained, as I hammer into her unforgivingly, chasing that release, hoping it releases so much more than the pressure in my dick.
My blood burns, my pace ramping up, my appetite ravenous, my need spiraling. “Fuck,” I yell, as it gets me, jerking my body, blowing my mind, squeezing my heart. I come so hard, hissing my way through the sensitivity, pouring into her, listening to the distorted sound of her shout of pleasure. I curse, grabbing at air, drawing it into my lungs urgently as I lose my grip of Ava and flop to my back, closing my eyes and concentrating on finding my breath, feeling her lazily crawl onto my chest.
“That wasn’t sleepy sex.”
“No?”
She kisses my throat, her wet tongue running over the roughness of my stubble. “No. That was a sleepy fuck.”
“For God’s sake,” I breathe, twitching. Could be her language. Could be her sucking on my neck. “Ava, stop swearing.”
“Sorry.”
Her mouth latches on to my chest, and I peek down, watching her suck my skin. “Are you trying to mark me?”
“No, just tasting.”
I accept, lying still, happy for her to taste me for as long as she likes. I’m good for nothing, anyway. Except the relentless circle of self-torture.Make today count.If I can’t speak one truth, I should speak another. “Ava?” I whisper as she kisses her way across my heart. It kicks more, like the closer she is, the better it works.
“Hmmm?” she hums, staying exactly where she is, lost in my skin.
“I knew you were the one the second I laid eyes on you,” I say quietly, remembering that time. That fateful, life-changing second.
She stills, her lips pausing on my neck. Not surprisingly, those words have her attention. “The one?” she asks, giving up my skin for my face. For the first time, I don’t need her eyes to check she’s real. I can feel her. So I push her back down into my neck, turning my mouth onto her ear, kissing it, making sure she hears me, making sure my words go straight to her mind and brand themselves there. “The one to bring me back to life.” It doesn’t get any simpler than that.
She wriggles free, and I let her. “How did you know?”
I love her curiosity. Her need to hear the finer details. I love how I see no fear in her gaze, just wonder. I sit up and get her beneath me, my gaze taking in every detail of her face for a few moments. “Because my heart started beating again,” I say quietly, feeling it now, smashing out of my chest. She swallows, clearly at a loss. I’ve no doubt she must know the intensity of the feelings I have for her. I also know without doubt that she struggles to understand how or why I love her so fiercely.
I wait, pensive and nervous for an interrogation, but she doesn’t question me. She simply engulfs me in her arms, wrapping me up tightly like I need protection, and hugs me. It’s the best thing she could do. Acceptance.
“Can I feed you?” she asks after a while. I engage my muscles to get up, taking Ava with me, still stuck, every arm and leg wrapped around me. “I’m going to forget how to use my legs.” She pulls back, getting my face in her sights as I walk us down to the kitchen.
“Then I’ll carry you everywhere.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I would love it.” Naturally.
I sit her on the counter and go to the fridge, feeling her eyes following me there. I inspect the contents. It’s more than I’m used to seeing in my fridge. I take some eggs, some butter, some tomatoes, stacking them in the crook of my arm. And a jar of Sun-Pat.
“I’m supposed to be makingyoubreakfast.” She comes to me, gloriously naked, and nudges me aside. “Sit.” She looks stern. It’s sexy as fuck. Naked and stern. Telling me what to do, within reason of course. My eyes drop to her boobs. She wants to cook me breakfast? What I’m hungry for does not need cooking. I give her nipple a quick tweak, her chest concaves, pulling away, and I grin, satisfied when it pebbles before I claim my vice and put myself on a stool, happy to watch my naked girlfriend—still hate that word—potter around our kitchen making me breakfast. “What do you want?”
“Fried eggs.” I raise my brows, pouting around my dipped finger, as my gaze drops down her naked body.
“I’ll cook yours, if you cook mine.”
“Savage.” I’m about to clean my finger with one more suck and cast aside my peanut butter ready to go in for round two of the day, but the front door closing interrupts me. I look toward the entrance into the kitchen, my brain taking a while to register the impending problem. I look down my body. Naked. Not a problem. Most people in my life have had the pleasure. I look across to Ava. Now that’s amassiveproblem. Who the fuck is it? Drew? Sam?
Then it registers who it must be, and I stand, catching the side of the jar and sending it to the floor. It smashes, and I look up at Ava, finding her frozen, eyes round, body naked, waiting for me to enlighten her. She is going to die a million painful deaths, especially after her performance last night.
“Fucking hell, it’s Cathy.”
