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I breathe out, letting his strong hands lift me up, and straddle his hips. My boobs sway in front of me, and he almost goes cross-eyed trying to look at them.
It makes me smirk. Then he slips his hands up to cup them and squeeze them, and a moan escapes me. All my anger, all my doubts flee when he touches me.
I reach down and guide his hard-on to my entrance, then sink down, taking him in.
Oh God. Every time is like a first, my body stretching to accommodate his size. Almost painful, almost, almost—until it turns into unbearable pleasure.
I bend over him, gasping when he pushes deeper, filling me up until he’s fully seated in my core, and I’m trembling.
Somehow it’s even better than it’d been in the shower, and I’m not just talking about the lack of a hard floor under my knees. Or even the feel of his mouth landing on my boobs, sucking on my nipples as he thrusts up, into me, or the feel of his big hands trailing down my belly and stroking my clit.
No, it’s his face when he draws back to gasp my name and rock harder into me, when he whispers my name as his cock jerks inside me. That wide-eyed look, the surprise and pleasure and something else, something sharp that cuts me like a blade to the heart.
And then I’m coming, too, the pressure in my core snapping so suddenly I cry out. I cry out his name, just like he wanted, unable to stop myself.
I think I call his name.
But later, as I roll by his side, trying to catch my breath, I realize I called for Blue, this elusive Blue who loves Kay.
Not Ocean.
I wonder if he noticed.
***
He walks into the kitchen about an hour later, after having taken his turn in the shower. I left him dozing and washed myself, not wanting to wait for him.
Why? Not sure. I needed to think. Not sure thinking is doing me any good, though. My thoughts are all mixed up.
Especially when he appears at the door, clad in a towel and nothing else, that sculpted chest and arms on full display, his wet hair looking black.
The splotches of dark bruising all over his torso act like a splash of cold water, reminding me how close I came to losing him.
Though he’s
not mine.
He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it up, and I have to remind myself not to drool as he ambles over to the counter and props a hip against it.
“Morning,” he rasps, and I get a flashback of his body moving underneath mine, his voice moaning my name.
God. I throb between my legs, and my skin grows hot from the memory.
Flames lick my face, and I turn my back to him, pretending to be checking my plants. “Morning yourself.”
“You were gone when I woke up.”
Surprised, I glance at him over my shoulder. I can’t read his face. He’s glaring at my pack of Tarot cards. I didn’t remember I left them in the kitchen.
“I took a shower,” I say. “Didn’t want to wake you up.”
Is it me, or does he look kind of sad? Or maybe mad at me? Hard to read his face when my gaze keeps slipping to his chest.
Good God.
I turn back around to my plants and check them for imaginary parasites. “I made coffee.”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says quietly, and I tense.
