I watch his reflection in the glass, heart hammering as his gaze moves over me like a lover’s caress. He gives a low growl of appreciation, clearly liking what he sees, and nudges my thighs apart. When he trails a finger down the seam of my ass, any lingering modesty is eviscerated.
My core clenches, desperate for relief only Nick can provide.
“Condom?” I ask, turning my head to the side.
He crushes his mouth to mine, the unexpected kiss hard and brutal. It’s completely on brand for this strong, resilient man, and I love it. Before he can pull away, I capture his lower lip between my teeth, holding him in place until he produces a foil packet, holding it up like a golden ticket.
I quirk a brow and release him, anticipation reaching a fever pitch. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended right now.”
“Definitely flattered.” He flashes me a cocky grin and tears the packet open, taking a half step back to roll it over his length. “I wanted to be prepared, just in case.”
I shift my weight, trying to relieve the pressure building between my thighs. “Preparation is good.”
After all, I’m not sure the world is ready for Nick 2.0.
“I’ve been thinking about this for days,” he says, sweeping my hair to the side so it falls over my shoulder. He lowers his mouth to my neck, pressing hungry kisses to my heated flesh, and I relax into him, eyes drifting shut. His erection glides along my backside, long and thick, and I swear to God if he doesn’t quit teasing me—
“I’ve wondered what you would taste like. If you’d be sweet or spicy on my tongue.” His hands circle my waist, sliding over my abdomen and straight to my core. He strokes me once. Twice. Each touch sends a dizzying wave of pleasure crashing through me. “Do you know what else I’ve wondered?”
“Hmmwha?” It’s gibberish, but I’m beyond caring. I rock my hips, desperate for release.
“I’ve wondered how it would feel to bury my cock in that sweet little pussy,” he whispers, plunging a long finger inside me.
I moan and throw my head back as my body clenches him tight, the need for release bearing down on me like a tidal wave, climbing higher and higher toward its crest.
“Christ, you’re wet.” He gives me two more quick strokes and my knees damn near buckle.
Close. I’m so close.
“Nick,” I pant, bracing my hands on the glass with renewed fervor. “Enough foreplay. Unless you want me to come on your hand, I need you inside me right now.”
Without another word, he positions himself behind me, and with one quick thrust, seats himself to the hilt, hips slamming against my backside. The pleasure is exquisite, just as I’d known it would be. Nick doesn’t do anything half-assed, and for once his single-minded drive for perfection is a godsend.
“Scarlett.” He whispers my name like it’s part blessing, part curse, and for a long moment he doesn’t move, but I can’t tell if it’s for my benefit or his.
Then his fingers dig into my hip and his free hand snakes around to my center. He withdraws and thrusts into me slowly. Once. Twice. I beg for more, and he presses a finger to my clit, circling the bundle of nerves as he plunges into me harder and faster, the pace accelerating with each meeting of our bodies.
Before long, we’re both panting, racing toward climax like it’ll be our salvation. Maybe it will, because when I go spiraling over the edge, Nick’s name on my lips and waves of pleasure crashing down over me, he’s right there with me, sealing his mouth to mine.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nick
Turns out Frenchies aren’t made for running unless it’s to the food dish. I make a mental note to rib Scarlett about her suggestion to take Oreo jogging, because it’s clear this is one time she didn’t do her research. It says right on the internet that Frenchies aren’t distance runners.
Of course, I didn’t find this out until after I’d set out for my Thursday morning run with Oreo in tow.
I figured it out pretty quickly, though. She hustled her tiny butt to the corner and then flopped down, ready for a break. Eventually, she consented to a quick walk through the neighborhood, but the joke’s on me.
Oreo’s sense of urgency is nonexistent. She’s strolling along like doggy royalty, a queen out to greet her Rainey Street subjects. Which I guess makes me the footman.
Fitting, since it’s also making me late as hell.
I’d thought the neighborhood would be less distracting than the park, which is full of dog walkers and wildlife, but I’d been wrong. Oreo is a city dog through and through. She seems to think she has an obligation to stop and inspect every café, boutique, and pedestrian who crosses our path.
A belief that’s reinforced by a shitload of cooing and petting from strangers.
“Let’s go, Your Highness.” I tug gently on her leash to encourage her to move along. “If you’ve seen one fire hydrant, you’ve seen them all.”
