Same Time Next Year(23)

“Fuck it,” he growls, spinning me around, his mouth swooping down on mine.

It’s a kiss full of frustration and surrender and lust. So much of everything that my knees lose function, and he has to catch me on the way down, hauling me back up against his body.

“Britta?” he says against my mouth, breathing heavily.

“Yes?”

“I was raised not to use my strength against a woman. But I will if you ask me to.”

I’ve never experienced such a raw pull of muscle so low in my stomach. Not in my life. And the pure hunger it leaves behind gives me no choice but to say, “Yes, please.”

With very little effort or exertion, Sumner throws me over his shoulder and kicks open my apartment door, walking straight in like he owns the place.





SUMNER


There are moments during a game, usually when my team is losing at the end of the third period, that I’m able to lock into a higher sense of purpose.

I will tell myself, I’m going to fucking win, and then I will stop thinking altogether. It’s just action. Motion. Adrenaline. I don’t even know my own name in those moments, I’m so locked into completing the mission.

That’s where I’m at right now while I carry Britta toward her bedroom.

Only the adrenaline and need are about ten times more severe.

And I know I should have left. I should have gone, because Britta is not head over heels for me the way I am for her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I’m self-aware enough to know that I need her to be. I’m desperate for us to be on the same page. Fucking her is going to feel so good, but it’s going to be a long, hard fall afterward. All she wants is sex.

My dick is in critical condition, though, and my reckless heart is begging me to get close to her now, now, now and deal with the consequences later—and I have no choice, because she has given me the green light to mete out some rough sex, and I’m in her bedroom, which is so perfectly her, my throat starts to ache as soon as I’m over the threshold.

Deep royal blues. Gold-and-white stripes.

A bookcase lit with Christmas lights.

Citrus.

That’s all I’m able to process before I throw her down on the bed and start to unfasten my jeans, hands shaking. My balls are so full and heavy, they feel like they’re a couple of weights sitting in my stomach, which is another reason I should stop. Stop. I’m going to come too fast. This could be my one chance to be inside my wife, and I’ve got about ten good pumps in me, goddammit. But there’s no way in hell I can do anything but plow forward.

Because, holy shit, would you look at her?

As soon as I threw her down on the bed, she sat up and reached back to unzip her dress, her gaze intent on my fly, her cheeks deepening with color. The straps fall loose around her arms, then lower to her waist, leaving her in this black bra that pushes her tits up like two ripe apples, and I almost die. No, I am. I’m dying. I’m going to climax in my pants over the fact that this is happening at all. I’m about to sleep with Britta. My wife. The girl I’ve been obsessing over since the moment I laid eyes on her.

“Britta, Jesus, you are so fucking beautiful.” I leave my zipper halfway down and strip off my shirt, enjoying the way she catches her breath, her fingers twisting in the comforter at what she sees. I’m not vain by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s no use pretending I’m not a brick shithouse with enough muscle for three men—and the lust that transforms her expression tells me she likes that. A lot. Thank God. “Let’s

get the rest of your clothes off. Safely. If I start kissing you again first, they’re going to get ripped in half.”

“Ohhh. Um . . .” She pushes at her dress clumsily, like her hands aren’t working, and pride moves in my chest. I’m rattling her. Good. She’s been rattling me as far back as I can remember, because I swear to God, my memories start with the night I met her. “Can you undress me?”

“Britta, I’ve been living to undress you.”

A shudder goes through her, those incredible tits swelling against the black silk of her bra. “I didn’t know it was possible to get wet from dirty talk,” she says haltingly, arching her back and reaching behind herself to unsnap the undergarment—and I watch in absolute awe as she shows me her bare breasts for the first time, two cherry-tipped miracles that make me throb everywhere. “Why doesn’t it sound cheesy when you do it?”

“I . . . what?” My hands move on their own, taking her dress the rest of the way off and then throwing it to the floor. Now she’s in a thong. She’s in nothing but a thong, and I’m growing less and less confident in those ten pumps. It might be closer to five. “I can’t think straight enough to answer your question, sweetheart. Have you seen you?”

“You’re gorgeous,” she blurts, sitting up slightly, curling a fist in my waistband and tugging me down on top of her, which takes very little encouragement. “You’re so, so gorgeous, Sumner,” she murmurs, those words ending on a moan when I settle my weight fully on top of her, and we start to kiss, my hips rolling forward between her thighs, her fingers tracing the slopes of my shoulders, the hockey-sore muscles of my back.

We kissed at the concert, but there was restraint involved that is gone now.

Long gone. I’m stroking my tongue into her perfect mouth the way I want to stroke my cock into her body, humping her through my jeans and her panties, the urgency building to a fever pitch within seconds.