His expression heated to the point she thought she could come from that alone.
“Margot.”
She’d never get tired of the way he said her name.
He dropped his forehead to hers, his thrusts faster. Harder. An inexorable erotic pressure took her almost to breaking, and there it was, her orgasm right there, ripe for the taking, and for the first time in her life she didn’t rush to meet it head-on. Take it and run. She wanted to wait. To savor.
“Come,” he growled as if reading her thoughts. “I got to give that to you.”
“Not. Alone,” she managed to gasp.
He pumped and rutted, until her clit pulsed. Until she could hear her own wetness, the syrup-like damp coating her inner thighs.
“I told you to come,” he ordered.
“With you.” She dug her fingers into his hair and pulled.
There was a smack, a bite of flesh.
She yelped. “You’re an ass-slapper, now?”
“Give it to me,” he ordered, and the bossy man had her number.
She gave in and gave up, biting down on his shoulder, tasting the salt, the sharp sweet tang of desire as pure sensation washed over her. And as it kept going she felt him unravel. His movements jerkier.
Once, last year in Mexico, she’d been caught in a riptide and dragged out, the shore retreating. She knew not to fight, that to fight the current was to drown. So she let the rip carry her farther and farther and that’s how it was now. Except she never wanted it to run out, the feeling to ebb; she wanted him to keep taking her on this wave until they found a new shore, a place that was them and no one else.
“Margot.” Her name was a prayer.
And he reached down, pulled her closer, pulled her mouth to his.
“I’ve waited my whole life for you.” He squeezed her fingers gently.
“Tor is going to shit a brick when he finds out what we’ve done. And I’m not sure my friends are going to understand.”
“It doesn’t matter what Coach thinks. Or anyone. If you are for me, who can be against me?”
“That sounds almost religious.”
“Romans. 8:31. With a few key modifications.”
“Patrick.” She wiggled in closer. “You can’t quote the Bible while you’re still inside me.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite, babe.” He tweaked her nipple, soothing the slight sting with a long, slow suck. “’Cause you were screaming for God the whole time.”
“Jesus take the wheel!” She buried her face in his chest. “What will the neighbors think?”
“Anybody asks, say ‘Prayer circle’ while looking ’em dead in the eye.”
She dissolved into giggles, glad when he anchored his arms around her because it felt as if she could just float away. “You’re terrible.”
He shifted against her, still inside, the hardest part of him in her softest place. “I don’t want to leave you.”
She glanced up. His eyes were closed. The individual hairs of his beard were a fascinating mix. Honey. Tawny gold. Cinnamon. Amber.
“Then don’t.”
She let her own eyes drift closed, and as sleep tugged her down, she could swear that she spied a glimpse of that far-fabled shore.
