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Her face is a picture. “What?”
“You heard me. Don’t make me fuck it out of you, baby.” I’m already fucking it out of her, and it’s wonderful. “Ava, answer me.” I stare down at her, my expression fixed, as she looks up at me, stunned. She can’t be surprised. She knows. “Don’t hold out on me.” I continue to drive, retreat, and plunge, and Ava starts to shake.
“How did you know?” She slams her eyes closed on a yell of pleasure, and I growl, beginning to get frustrated, my moves becoming more brutal, a slow withdrawal, a hard smash back into her. I amnotleaving her body until she says it. She needs to get it off her chest as much as I did, and I really fucking need to hear it.
“Damn it, Ava, look at me.” I see with worrying certainty that she’s getting emotional, caught between dealing with the intensity of this moment and dealing with how fucking meaningful it’s become. Whether soft and slow or hard and fast, always so meaningful. She swallows, bracing herself, and then she opens her eyes. “I love you,” I tell her again, my teeth clenched, my body vibrating as I pound into her once more.
“I love you too!”
I freeze, my lungs screaming, my chest rolling.Finally. But I never considered how I’d feel once she’d actually spoken those words while looking me in the eye. Sober. Words she was scared to say. A confession she was terrified to admit. Yes, I feel untold relief. But I also feel the guilt swell, and I wasn’t prepared for that.
I must make sure she doesn’t regret loving me.
Condemned.
“I love you so fucking much.” I swallow, my throat tight. Will my fierce love save us? Or kill us? “I didn’t think it was possible.” I smile faintly, happiness and sadness at war inside of me, as I lift my hips and sink slowly into her. “Now, we make love.” I drop my lips to hers, release her hands, and kiss her until my tongue aches and the urge to make her endless promises overcomes me. I find her eyes, but I don’t voice my promises. In this moment, I don’t need to. My devotion must be written all over my face, emblazoned across my sweaty skin. She is my be all and end all, and the way she’s gazing at me as I make love to her, she knows I won’t let her down.
“Together,” I whisper, feeling my control slipping.
She nods, her hands on a mission across my back, her legs stiffening and relaxing constantly.
“Christ, Ava.” My cock jerks, the blood pounding, and she whimpers as she comes, squeezing her eyes closed to deal with the intensity, every inch of her rigid.
“Eyes.”
She gives me them immediately, and I groan, staring at her, my jaw tight, every muscle locked down, as her body absorbs my climax. “I love you.” She murmurs the words, and it’s the perfect end to a perfect moment. Reinforcement.
I kiss her gently. “I know you do, baby.”
“How did you know?” she asks, and I smile. I saw it. Questioned it. Drove myself crazy wondering if I was reading too much into it. Even when she was drunk and spilled it.
“You told me when you were drunk after I showed you how to dance.”
Her frown is adorable. So is the hint of embarrassment. “I don’t remember.”
I roll myself into her firmly, seeing her mind working overtime. She’ll never remember. I’ve never seen a woman so wrecked. “I know you don’t. It was so fucking frustrating.”
She blinks, frowns, and I see with perfect clarity how she’s piecing together the aftermath of that night.Yes, I already tried and failed to fuck it out of you, baby.
“You knew all along?” She sounds so accusing.
“You were drunk,” I mutter. “I wanted to hear the words when you were of sound mind. Women get drunk all the time and confess their undying love to me.” And somedon’tneed drink. Coral, case in point.
“Do they?” she blurts. She doesn’t like that thought. I have to stop my amusement from showing. She won’t appreciate it. Or the women hounding me. God, I hope they’ve moved on.
“Yes, they do.” Even when I’m shitfaced. Even when I’m a bastard. Even when I treat them like objects. I have to look away from Ava for a moment. I was a bastard to her. Drunk and cruel. “I wasn’t sure if you still did after...” I pause a beat, not wanting to go back to last Sunday. Not ever again. “Well, after I had my little meltdown.”
She’s silent for a moment—an uncomfortable moment, and I kick myself for bringing up a time I’m sure we both want to forget.
“I love you,” she more or less growls, looking angry.I love you.It sounds so good. She lovesme. I rock my hips, and she sighs, taking my shoulders and pulling me down. And she hugs me. Fiercely. And I consider for a moment that it’s not the memories of last Sunday bothering her, but the women I alluded to. Could she be possessive? The thought thrills me. Unreasonable, maybe, but thrilling. I smile and snuggle deeper, so fucking content.
“How old are you, Jesse?”
What does it matter? I love her. She loves me. End of. I lift and get her in my sights. I’d love to know how old shethinksI am. Right now, probably sixty. Although life has been injected into me again, so perhaps only forty. “I can’t remember,” I say over a pout, feigning thinking.
Mischief is suddenly all I can see in her eyes, and her twitching hand against me is a massive clue as to what comes next. “We were at thirty-three,” she says with too much confidence for a woman who has a huge, obvious tell.
My grin is epic. God, I love that I know her so well. “We should start again.”
