The Rom Con(81)
He moves over me, spoiling me, learning my body and minding my reactions, but it’s torturous—he’s setting a loose, languid pace when all I want him to do is annihilate me, press me into the mattress, suffocate me with his weight and his kisses. I writhe against him in an underhanded attempt to steal his control, but he doesn’t give an inch; he won’t be rushed. I think this must be part of his master plan—he wants me mindless and pliant, holding nothing back, so wild with lust that I’m twisting out of my skin, screaming his name, begging for mercy.
And maybe I’ll give him what he wants. Our relationship has always thrived on competition, the push-pull dynamic between us as intoxicating as any drug, but maybe this is where I let him lead. Maybe this time, I’ll let him take me where he wants to go while I relax and enjoy the ride. Going head-to-head and toe-to-toe with him has been fun, but I think I’ve finally found a kind of submission I can embrace. Betty would be proud.
Once I make that decision, it doesn’t take me long to break.
Jack continues his carnal assault, his hands and tongue and body relentlessly pushing me to the limit, taking everything I have to give, and I surrender it all until I’m nothing but a quivering mass chasing release. This is the most intense sexual experience of my life, and I tell him so.
His mouth curls up. “For me too.” And then: “Tell me what else you’re thinking.”
So I do. I tell him how sexy he is, that I’ve never been so attracted to someone. How I’ve ached for him since the night we met, and how difficult he’s been to resist. I tell him what a good man I think he is, how strong and capable and admirable. I tell him how long I’ve fantasized about being right here, pinned beneath him and sheltered in his arms while he learns me inside and out. I tell him when he hits a spot that feels so good, so intense, I think it might split me in two.
He growls at that last one and thrusts harder, his speed picking up, hips grinding into mine until there’s no more in and out, no separation between our bodies. There’s only deep and deeper, our hips permanently fused, and I cry out, feeling my peak bearing down on me with each subsequent thrust—and then I’m yelling his name and gripping his biceps, body clenched and locked tight as I sail over the edge, breathless and euphoric as he joins me in finding his own release.
We lay there afterward, catching our breath and coming down from the high, and I’m almost comatose. The emotional whiplash of the day has finally caught up with me and I’m utterly spent. I’m breathless and boneless; a runner who’s collapsed just past the finish line. I let out a sigh of contentment that morphs into a yawn, and Jack chuckles.
“You gonna make it?” He kisses me on the forehead and starts to withdraw, and I whine my disapproval.
“Unclear,” I slur drowsily—though I manage to muster up enough energy to roll over and ogle his naked backside as he pads over to the bathroom. “But I do know I want us to do that every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
He barks a laugh and I hear the sink turn on. “That can be arranged.”
I roll onto my back again and stretch out, basking in the afterglow, luxuriating in these ridiculously soft sheets. I am never leaving this bed. We could move in here, stay forever. I wonder how long the contents of the minibar would last us.
The bathroom light flicks off a minute later and then he’s walking toward me in the dim light, godlike and perfect. He’s totally un-self-conscious even in nothing but his birthday suit, muscles and planes and, ahem, appendages all jockeying for my attention. He’s the statue of David come to life, and I give myself a mental high five for landing this delicious piece of man candy. Vitality and testosterone radiate from his pores. I’d swear his skin is glittering like a fictional vampire, but I think that’s just my love-goggles talking.
“That’s quite a look on your face,” he says.
“Shh, I’m mentally objectifying you.”
He chuckles as he climbs back into bed, snuggling me against his chest and tucking the covers around us. I’m in a million-thread-count cocoon. “You know, you should be careful what you wish for. I’ve got months of pent-up sexual energy and you’ve barely scratched the surface. You won’t be able to stand once I’m done with you.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He laughs again, and the growly timbre of his voice liquefies my insides. “Actually, joke’s on you, because my love language is ‘acts of service.’?”
He arcs an eyebrow as if to say, And?
“Which means I expect you to service me once a day, duh.”
His lips twitch into a naughty smirk. “Only once a day?” His hand drifts south under the sheets, skimming over my derriere, and his lips find my neck. “That all you can handle?”
And it’s funny—all of a sudden, I get a second wind.
Chapter 17
When I awaken, I’m exactly where I was when I drifted off: in his arms, curled up against his side, absorbing his heat. My nose is smashed into his armpit, like even in sleep I’m desperate to soak up his pheromones. And you know what, I apologize for nothing. I’d hook myself up to a Jack IV drip if I could.
I have no idea what time it is, but I also don’t really care; I’m in no hurry to leave this dreamy love-bubble we’re in. I snuggle closer to him, warming all over when his arm tightens around me reflexively. I graze my fingernails through the smattering of dark chest hair dusting his torso, then have to stifle a laugh as I remember one of the weirder tips. Frolicking in his chest hair, indeed.