I lean in closer, drag my nose up the line of her breast, tongue swirling in lazy circles. “I can smell your sweetness from here.”
I could die and go straight to heaven, buried right here in this woman.
“So sexy, the way you get that look in your eye when I’m fucking you nice and slow, like you want more of my dick?—”
“But I’m so full, I don’ t know if I can take any more…”
“That’s the look.” I take her nipple into my mouth, sucking with deft tenderness. “That look is so fucking hot, baby. It makes me want to unload deep inside this hot pussy.”
My words must do something, because her pussy pulses and she comes around me in sweet moans as my hands push into her hair. I suck and slow my tongue, kiss her perfect lips.
Fucking bliss.
I clutch her waist and circle my hips, pulling all the way out before pushing all the way back in. She scratches my shoulders, runs her nails down my back as I bite through the pain and continue to move in and out of her. I murmur in her ear how incredible she is taking me in fully, how tight she feels fisted around me, how beautiful and sensual and so fucking sexy she is.
I suck on her nipples and tease the hardened peaks with my teeth, nipping just before I pull away so she arches and cries and her pussy comes in another wave around me.
I grunt as I plunge into her before sucking at the flesh under the curve of her breast. I heave and thrust until I still inside her, pour my release into her ripe body, my seed streaming in fierce jets as I collapse on top of her, kissing her between pants, riding the waves of the best fucking moment of my life, right on into the next one, with her.
“I love you so damn much. Every moment with you gets better and better.”
Epilogue
Rory
two months later
The Devil’s Bean smells like espresso, toasted coconut milk, and freshy, buttery croissants.
It’s a light rush—not dead, not slammed—the kind of morning where people linger instead of grab and go. Spring snow dusts the windows, sunlight refracts off the counter, and my favorite chipped mug sits behind the register like it belongs there. Like I do.
I’m steaming milk when the first note hits the speakers.
A low, gravelly hum. Warm. Familiar.
I freeze.
Ray LaMontagne croons through the shop,You are the best thing…and my shoulders tighten instinctively. That song is sacred. Private. Mine. It’s the song I only play when I’m closing alone or cleaning the espresso machine after midnight, when the lights are low and my heart feels too full for a Tuesday.
I scowl at the tablet mounted by the register. “Who messed with my playlist?”
A couple at the corner table snickers. Someone at the bar shrugs. No one confesses.
Then I feel it.
That prickle at the back of my neck. That awareness I’ve learned not to name.
Dax.
He’s leaning against the counter like he always does, broad shoulders filling out his jacket, hair still damp from snow. He’s pretending very hard to be normal. Which means he’s up to something.
“What?” he says, innocence poorly disguised. “You don’t like good music?”
“That song is not for public consumption,” I tell him, sliding a latte across the counter. “It’s an emotional liability.”
He grins. Slow. Dangerous. “Noted.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did you touch my playlist?”
