“Bed,” I pant, writhing against him.
He withdraws, scoops me off the table, and carries me to the bed. I’m not laid down gently; I’m tossed. And he’s back on me in a second, prowling over my body in a way that promises incredible destruction.
“Open your legs for me,” he commands, and I do—because I want nothing more than to have him there. All night. All day. I’m never leaving this bed with James.
His large body settles between my thighs and this time, when he pushes in, he doesn’t go slow. I gasp at the feel of our chests pressing together and grip at his back, holding on. And then he gives me what I really want—allof him, plus his mouth on mine. Once he’s fully seated, he rolls his hips against me while swirling his tongue in my mouth, mounting this sensation to something so acute, so absolute, I think it will consume me. Singe me. Brand my body.
He drops from my mouth to my throat, hand coming up to grip my breast, rolling his hand over my nipple in time with his hips.
“Oh . . . I’m . . . so close,” I pant out, rocking, thrusting, begging.
“Do you want it like this?”
“I want it like this—and a thousand other ways.”
He laughs against my throat. “Deal. We’ll start here.”
And he lets go of his restraint.
He rocks into me—over and over—faster and harder each time. The headboard pounds the wall and my blood surges through my body, pooling between my legs where James is pushing in and out. And then I’m hitting that ultimate climb—gasping, reaching, tugging to reach the peak.
James grunts a strained noise, and I know he’s holding off, waiting for me to go first, but it’s taking all his willpower.
My fingers bite into his sweat-slicked back and I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip.
“No,” he rasps, and his thumb pulls my lip from my teeth. “I want to hear it when you come. I want to hear my name on your lips when you—”
I shatter, and cry out exactly what he wanted, and clutch his back, urging him to keep going, to ride this pleasure with me. His pace continues, but the set of his jaw hasn’t loosened. He’s not done. His hand slips between my legs now, where we’re joined, and he puts his fingers around the base of him, gently swirling a new rhythm as he thrusts. And it has me approaching orgasm all over again.
I drag in a breath, arching and whimpering as the sensation builds again. And when he rasps, “That’s it. Give me one more,” I do.
And then James shifts onto his arm, pulling my knee up by his rib cage, a new angle to finally chase what feels best to him. His body tenses and he drops his face into my neck, groaning deep and low as he comes apart. I’ve never been happier. I’ve never wanted someone to enjoy something so much.
But it’s James.MyJames. And together, we made this happen.
“Want to do it like five more times?” I ask against his dewy chest after we’ve both settled.
He chuckles softly and squeezes me. “Give me like two minutes.”
“You get one and a half.”
I end up giving him thirty—and in that time, James discovers I’m hyper after sex. I clean up, pop on a tank top and underwear, and whip up some snacks. While James sits propped on my bed, munching seasoned popcorn, I give him a one-woman show: delivering a monologue from my favorite movie,Pretty Woman.
“When I was a little girl . . .” I start, and end with, “. . . I’ll put you up in a great condo.”
James is a rapt audience. He claps, and I bow.
And then he has me naked again in a blink, and we’re making up for all the times we wanted to do this over the last three months but resisted. There’re new angles, tricks up James’s sleeve I never would have guessed he knew. He’s got me folded over the bed at one point and on the floor at another.It won’t always be like this,I warn him, because I don’t want him to think I’m some never-ending sexual spring of energy. He reminds me he’s a farmer, up at five every day, and it’s okay if our nights are not always so sensually prolific. He says this with my legs slung over his shoulders.
What a joy.
And the very best part of this night, I realize, is how much we talk along the way. We laugh. We play and find what feels good together without preamble or theatrics (other than my monologue). It’s just comfortable, and exciting, and lively—but oh so cozy. I am cocooned in undeniable safety at every turn, not worried about what he’s thinking of me, because he’s voicing it. Not for dirty talk or because he’s trying to outdo anyone I’ve slept with previously but because he’s my best friend. And best friends tell each other everything.
I love him, and I love that when we’re thoroughly exhausted and ready to sleep, he’s too big for my bed but stays with me anyway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
James
