“I don’t think they make this one in a variety of colors. I have the only other color, black.” She bit her bottom lip. “And if you buy me ten, why would this one be special?”
I stared down at her, no doubt breathing like a lion, my nostrils flaring.
“All right!” She laughed. “All right! I was just kidding!”
Plates were knocked to the floor, so were glasses, and whatever cake was leftover was all over her.
“I want to smell like you, only you,” she said, panting in my ear.
“I want this fucking thing off,” I growled, palming the soft fabric in my hand. Lifting it didn’t seem right. Ripping it did. She was my gift. I gave in, though, slipping it over her head instead, revealing nothing but smooth skin beneath.
Her chilled feet made quick work of my pants, pushing them down until they touched the floor, and I stepped out, freed from anything but us.
The cake tasted even better on her. It was smeared between us, on us, touching every surface that we did.
“It’s sort of like paint, isn’t it? It’s everywhere.Ah!” She made a tender noise, pleasure and surprise in one. It sent a shock through me, like lightning through the blood, and the reverberation in bone made me tremble.
“Make that noise again,” I demanded.
“Dothatagain!” She sucked in a breath. “Ah! Ah! Ahhhhh!”
“Yeah,” I said, licking her thighs clean. The taste of her was my favorite flavor. “Just like that.”
When she started to speak French, I knew she was close. We were both covered in sweat—it took all of my restraint to hold back. She came apart for me a second later, screaming my name as she did.
I slipped in right after, knowing how fucking sensitive she would be. Another bolt of lightning shot through me at first contact, her hold around me hot and wet, so fucking tight, warning me of the thunder to come.
“Brando,” she whispered.
I stilled, looking down at her. A droplet of sweat from my forehead fell onto her chest.
“I meant it, too. Only you. Always.”
Her head tilted back, her back arched, and she brought me home full hilt. I wondered if I could hit the same note Pavarotti did. Instead, I made an inhuman noise when I refused to hold back any longer.
I wasn’t sure how long we stayed that way, both of us breathing hard, my face buried in her neck, her arms around me, but neither of us let go. Then I felt her go soft, heard her sniff, and then she began to sob.
“Baby,” I whispered, attempting to pull away from her. “Let me see your face.”
She shook her head, holding on tighter. “I’m fine.” She sniffed in the crevice of my shoulder. “It’s—oh, I don’t know what the hell it is!”
“Keep your arms and legs wrapped around me.”
All she could do was nod. Her entire body shook.
I picked her up, carried her over to the sofa, and then leaned forward, pulling out a drawer at the bottom of the coffee table. Scarlett kept thick blankets in there for when we watched movies or someone got cold. I covered her back with it, keeping her firmly to my front. She kept her head against my chest, her tears a constant flow. The streams were warm at first, but the longer they lingered, the colder they became.
“Talk to me, Scarlett.”
“I—I don’t want to talk, Brando. Not now. But. Will you stay with me tomorrow? All day?”
“Yeah,” I said. “All day.”
“You won’t take any calls?”
“No, baby, I won’t.”
“All right.” She hiccupped. “I think I ate too much cake.”
