“That’s it, gorgeous, come all over my tongue, so I can fuck you before I explode.”
That’s all it takes. She’s crying out, her fists clutching my hair, back arched. Before she has a chance to catch her breath, I’m moving up her body, onto the bed, gripping her thighs and thrusting into her. I can feel the throb of her orgasm squeezing my cock. I won’t last long. Her hips kick up to meet me thrust for thrust, heels digging into the bed beneath her, knees wide.
“Faster,” she gasps. “Harder.”
Somewhere in my lizard brain it registers we’re doing this without a condom—again—but there’s not a force in heaven or earth that could make me pull out now. I’ve completely lost my mind to this woman. What’s worse is, at this moment, I have no desire to get it back.
I can feel my orgasm bubbling in my balls, rising like a tidal wave. Sweat drips off my face onto her breasts. Breasts bearing the marks I left there last night, with my mouth and my fingers. Those marks ignite me past breaking point; my thrusts become brutal and uncontrolled.
We peak together. I roar my release as she chokes out a garbled ‘oh my God’, her muscles closing around me like a vise. I collapse over her, barely able to support my weight on my forearms to avoid crushing her. My heart pounds against her breast, my breath coming in heaving gasps. And I swear, I hear Lulu MacLeod purr.
Chapter Sixteen
Lulu
Ihavenowords.No. Scratch that. I have no brain cells. They have all died, gone to heaven, and are now floating on a soft, warm cloud, smoking a metaphorical cigarette and eating chocolate. Or maybe peeled grapes. Those big, fat pink ones.
I have no idea how long it takes, but eventually, my breathing levels out. I feel Nick shift to the side, his arm still over my waist, his body pressed close to my side.
“We seem to be making a habit of this,” he murmurs. I turn my head to look at him and snort out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry, but you have paint in your hair. And on your face.” I reach up a still trembling hand to wipe at the red and purple streak on his cheek, which only makes it worse.
“Hmm. Well, it was worth it.” His expression is soft, as it was last night. My stomach does a strange roll I can’t identify. “I can’t seem to help myself with you. I don’t usually lose control like that.”
I can’t help but smile. “Me either, it would seem.” I turn towards him as he shifts onto his back and pulls my head to his shoulder. We’re silent for so long I wonder if perhaps he’s falling asleep—after all, we didn’t get much sleep last night.
“Your painting. It’s beautiful. Astounding, actually.” I hear his low words and feel them rumble through his chest to mine at the same time. “Do you always paint after sex?”
“No. Not at all. But then I rarely have sex that’s so…” I struggle to find the right word.
“Intense? Out of control? Nuclear?”
“Yes. I felt completely …” Again, I’m lost for words. Luckily, Nick seems to know exactly what I’m trying to say.
“Unhinged?”
I nod.
“I did too. I completely lost control. And I’m not even a little bit sorry.” For the first time ever, I see Nick grin. A wide, open, uninhibited grin reaching from his eyes to the edge of his cheeks. It makes him look years younger. And a whole lot more dangerous.
I feel myself grin back. “Me either. And I wouldn’t be opposed to doing it again. Maybe after some refuelling?” I get up and grab my robe from the end of the bed.
“That sounds like an excellent plan.” Nick follows, stalking naked across the loft to where he dropped his pants and stepping into a snug pair of dark grey boxer briefs which, thank you underwear gods everywhere, do nothing to hide his assets.
I crack open a bottle of the sparkling water I can’t seem to get enough of these days and pour us a glass before putting together a share plate of cheese, nuts, fruits and chicken with some lovely crusty bread I picked up on my way home this morning. It’s hard to believe it was only this morning I did the walk of shame from Nick’s apartment. I’ve had more orgasms in the last less than twenty-four-hours than I’ve had in the past year. But it’s not only the quantity. The quality has been good. Off-the-charts good. And it looks like there will be more where they came from. I hand Nick his glass, where he is standing, examining the painting I started this morning.
I’m not normally a particularly fast painter, but this morning, just like the last time, inspiration seemed to fly off my brush and onto the canvas. The painting is maybe half finished, and as I look at it, I wonder how he knew this was us. My paintings are pretty abstract, and this one is no exception. There are no human bodies as such. Nothing more than vague shapes hinting at limbs and heads and torsos.
We stand side by side, staring at the painting, sipping our drinks.
“How did you know this was us?” I ask, needing to understand what he sees.
“Honestly? I have no idea. It felt like last night, if that makes sense. Those shapes there”—he waves his glass towards the centre of the painting— “they look something like bodies, and the colours are what I felt—hot, intense, passionate,” he says with a sheepish grin. “What we both felt, I think.”
The sun has lowered in the sky, and sunlight is hitting the painting directly. I lower the blind on the window in my studio area so the paint won’t dry too fast in the heat. With my back to him, I don’t hear Nick move until I feel his lips on my neck, his free hand brushing aside the silk of my robe so his mouth can wander across the skin of my shoulder.
