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.
“Morning,” I murmur.
“Mmm,” he mumbles, and his gravelly, sleep-drenched voice instantly becomes my favorite sound in the world. He turns his head and kisses my hair without opening his eyes, and I bloom under his affection. I feel like we’ve been doing this for a hundred years.
I watch his chest rise and fall for a full minute, feeling deeply content. Happy. “How’d you sleep?” I ask, drawing lazy circles on his abdomen.
He peeks one eye open. “Is that a real question? Best night of sleep I’ve ever had. Totally uninterrupted. Nice long stretch.”
I giggle as he brings my hand to his mouth for a kiss, and I know we’re both replaying our late-night exertions, the ones that kept us up half the night until we finally collapsed in exhaustion, sweaty and sated. In fact, I’d be a total zombie right now if not for the potent post-sex adrenaline still humming through my veins. The whole night has taken on a surreal, dreamlike quality, with steamy flashbacks spooling through my mind like a silent movie.
I start grooming his mussed hair, finger-combing his bedhead. I can’t stop touching him. “You have this rebellious little tuft in the front here that just doesn’t want to behave.” I make a few more attempts at taming said tuft before giving up.
He swipes at it with a coarse groan. “It’s extremely annoying.”
“No, I like it. It’s a rule breaker. You’re always so put together and on point, it’s nice to see you this way.” Unguarded and vulnerable—a side of him only I get to see.
It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, that I want to lighten his load, give him permission to slack off, be a source of fun and play in his life. Barring last night’s theatrics, he’s always so buttoned-up and controlled, rarely stepping out of line, forever carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It must be exhausting to be the responsible one all the time.
He yawns and stretches, and I study the way his ab muscles flex and bunch like I’ll be tested on it later. “What do you want to do today?”
“This.”
He laughs and rolls to face me, a smile in his eyes. “I feel like we’ll eventually need to eat.”
I pout at the idea of leaving this bed. So much for those change-of-address forms I’ve been mentally filling out. “How about room service?” I suggest hopefully. A bulletproof compromise if I’ve ever heard one.
“We could probably use some other clothes,” he says pragmatically, and honestly, his logic is getting annoying.
“Ugh, fine.” I’m tempted to sing that he’s a party pooper on par with Father of the Bride’s George Banks, but because I am mature, I refrain.
I throw off the covers and roll out of bed, and when I stand and stretch his eyes track over my body in a look so heated, it singes my skin. “Could you do that again? Maybe just a little slower?”
“I’m sorry, but someone has to eat,” I say with exaggerated emphasis as I cross the room. “Someone is starving.” I retrieve my panties from the desk and bend over provocatively, sliding them on in super-slow-mo.
I’m gratified by the choking noise he makes behind me. “Now that’s just cruel.”
I toss a satisfied smirk over my shoulder and grab my purse from the desk before heading into the bathroom, helping myself to the plush white robe hanging on the back of the door. Is this cashmere? My word. I wonder how hard it would be to smuggle this thing out of here—though without a suitcase, I’m guessing pretty hard. Maybe I can throw it on over my dress and pass it off as a couture coat. It’s called fashion, people. Honestly, it’d be worth the funny looks just to get an upgrade from the cheap waffle-weave number I’ve been rocking since college. This is the kind of fanciness I can get behind, thankyouverymuch Jack.