“It cures every problem a man can have. Ask anyone.” I try not to laugh, but my lips twitch.
“No, I’m not going to sit on your face! You’ll suffocate and die.”
“I’ll die happy, you mean.”
“You aren’t taking this seriously—”
“I am. It’s a time-honored remedy. The pussy poultice.”
“Oh my God.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement on her face. “I can’t—”
“Cures everything.”
“Willyou shut up? Obviously, your jaw is fine.”
“Just so you know, Owen’s hurts more. And his bony fiancée sitting on his face won’t fix it,” I say with a superior smile.
“I amsoooproud of you,” Molly says, batting her eyelashes. “But can we get serious? Is Owen going to try to sue? Make you look bad? I don’t want anything to do with me to reflect badly on you and damage your reputation.”
I stop the car for a red light. “Molly, listen. Nothing you do can make me look bad. Defending you against that asshole was my privilege, and you aren’t going to take it away from me. I won’t let you.”
“But—”
I put a finger over her lips. She isn’t going to give voice to the negative thoughts in her mind. That’s giving them too much power. “I’m already angry with myself that I let you get hurt all those years. There’s nothing I regret more than the unnecessary pain you’ve been carrying.”
Her eyes glint with something that looks like unshed tears, and I kiss her.
“See? I’m not hurt. Not even a little.”
“Okay,” she says in a small voice. Her eyebrows pinch together, the tips low and her face scrunched.
I don’t want to see her like this. I kiss her again. “You don’t have to be so disappointed. Even if I’m not really hurt, you can still sit on my face tonight.”
She bursts out laughing. The light changes, and I speed through the traffic.
We have a long night ahead.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Molly
When we arrive home, Nicholas parks the car carelessly and hurries out to open the door for me. Stepping out of the Spectre, I regard him with amusement. “You’re acting like somebody who forgot a cake in the oven,” I tease, even though I know why. He’s been hard since we left the gym.
“I have something better than cake in mind.” He loops his arms around my waist and kisses me hard.
My response is immediate. I part my lips, letting him in. Our tongues tango. There’s no coppery tang, and I’m relieved he really isn’t injured.
Nicholas herds us inside in slow, wide circles, like we’re dancing. Through the kiss and the pleasure stirring in my belly, I vaguely sense us moving past the foyer, and the living room…until we reach the staircase.
“Hold tight,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I look up at him with trust and need, then wrap my arms around his strong neck. He puts his hands on my butt and pulls me closer. My thighs circle his pelvis.
He carries me up the stairs, his legs moving in a powerful rhythm, his mouth devouring mine. Lust starts to swell as anticipation builds. My body has a visceral memory of the brutal intensity of pleasure he can give, and I crave it more than air.
He presses my back against the closed door to our bedroom, continuing to kiss me. I thread my fingers into his thick hair as my breath grows shorter and rougher and my heart races. I try to rock against him, but our position doesn’t allow for much movement.
Frustration slices through the heated desire. I try again to ease the ache between my legs, and am thwarted again. Nicholas is lost in our kiss, even though I can feel how hard he is now, how feverish his skin feels against me. Maybe he wants me to make the move. He loves it when I demand—silently or loudly—what I want from him.
