“I need you,” she gasps, her eyes wild.
I get rid of my clothes jerkily, and climb up her body, my cock throbbing. She pushes me, and I let her, so she’s on top of me, straddling me.
She sinks onto me, taking me inside her. Her tight, wet heat is perfect.
I groan, my hands gripping her hips as she starts to move.
“Fuck, Mia,” I growl, my hips bucking up to meet hers.
She throws her head back as she rides me, her tits bouncing with every thrust. She’s beautiful, fucking perfect, and I can’t take my eyes off her.
Her nails dig into my chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and I know she’s close. So am I.
“Come with me,” she begs, her voice breaking.
I fuck her harder, deeper, until she screams, her body clenching around me like a vice.
I come with her.
She rests her head on my chest and kisses a nipple. “Mine,” she says, loud and clear.
“Yours,” I agree.
CHAPTER 39
Mia
By the time we hit Burlington, I’m still riding that Stowe high. It’s been a thrill, the easy rhythm of being with him without a single landmine of the past blowing up between us.
When we pull up outside Katya’s place, Aiden doesn’t cut the engine.
I unclip my seatbelt and wait.
He just sits there, one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh, like he’s trying to glue me to the seat with sheer willpower.
“I really hate dropping you off here, baby,” he says finally, his voice low.
“Then don’t.” I clip my seatbelt back. “Take me to your place.”
“Ourplace,” he growls instantly, and the way it rumbles out of his chest sends a shiver through me. “It was never not yours.”
The corner of my mouth tugsup. “That so?”
“That’s so.” He pulls away from the curb like it’s been settled in a court of law.
When we get tohisplace, he unlocks the door, pushes it open—and freezes. I bump into his back and then go on tiptoe to peek in.
“That’s your blanket.” He walks into the living room and picks up the Native American throw that’s resting on the couch like it used to.
I close the door, and lean against it.
On the coffee table sits a giant ice bucket with a bottle of champagne nestled inside, so cold the glass is beaded with condensation. A card leans against it, the kind of thing only Katya would scrawl on at the last minute.
Aiden plucks it up.
“What does it say?” I ask casually.
He reads it aloud, his mouth quirking. “‘Congratulations on moving back in together. Don’t screw it up. Katya and Cristiano.’”
