He was trying, goddammit. But he’d never been so gone before. Never been so utterly destroyed by a woman. Swedish and English careened in his mind, but he forced himself to keep talking, to give her what she needed. To control the wave of pleasure rising to overtake him.
“I want to feel you come. I want to see you come apart all over me. It’ll be so good. So fucking good. Oh käraste, I can’t hold back—” His body no longer his own. It was hers. He thrust a hand between them, using two fingers to rub gently at her clitoris. She tossed her head back, her eyes still on him, and clenched him deep inside. As soon as he felt her release, he gave in to his own.
She collapsed against him, her chest heaving. He wrapped one arm around her, drew the fallen blanket up around them, and held her close.
“I have a confession,” he said when he could finally speak.
“What’s that?”
“I usually last longer.”
She gave him a curious glance. “Am I doing something wrong?”
“The opposite. You feel so good that I can’t last. It’s mortifying, truth be told. I swear, after a dozen more times, I’ll be used to it. I’ll be able to hold off, make you come at least twice before I do.”
She giggled. “Think how much we’ll improve once we’re married and can practice every day.”
“That’s true,” he said with a light chuckle. “But since that’s still a long way off, we’ll aim for two or three times per week.”
She stilled in his arms. “A long way?”
“Until we marry, yes. But we can enjoy ourselves in the meantime.”
“I know we can,” she said, her voice slipping into that careful, neutral tone she used with strangers. She pushed off his chest, and the cold absence of her touch was immediate. “What exactly does that mean? When do you think we’ll be married?”
He blinked up at her. Christ. He hadn’t even caught his breath, and now she wanted to talk about dates and promises? “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”
Her frown deepened. She slid off his lap and began dressing. The rustle of fabric was thunderously loud in the tight space of the automobile. He followed suit, slower than usual, his fingers clumsy at the cuffs. His mouth opened, then shut. He had no smooth answer. No easy footing. Is this what she felt like half the time?
“You told your family you’re courting me,” she said, her voice low. “We are intimate. I think I deserve to know what that means. How you envision our future.”
He focused on his buttons, unable to meet her gaze yet. Of all days for her to finally speak her mind. He couldn’t even be angry. He’d just told her he admired her boldness, her unpredictability. Just not, it seemed, when it worked against him. Damn it all, this was exactly why he had rules in place. Still, he’d never lied to her. He wouldn’t start now.
“We are courting,” he said, the words coming out sharper than intended. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “But there’s no need to rush. There’s no fixed timeline.”
Her brow knit. “I don’t know what that means. No rush to be with me?”
“No, not that. What I mean is…isn’t it freeing knowing that we control our future? That we can move at a pace that suits us?”
“No.”
He blinked. “No?”
“No, Emil, it doesn’t make me feel free. It makes me feel uncertain. Like you’re regretting your decision.”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “But I can’t be rushed. You know how I am. It makes my skin crawl, makes me want to fight?—”
“The thought of marrying me makes your skin crawl?”
“That’s not what I said.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. How were things getting away from him so quickly? She’d seen how his father tried to own his future—how he’d rejected that. Why couldn’t she see she was doing the same thing?
“I don’t like having everything laid out in advance. I need space. To choose things on my own terms.”
“You sound like a spoiled little boy.”
“And you sound exactly like my father.”
“Thank you,” she retorted. “He’s a very wise man.”
