My climax sneaks up on me, a warm vibration starting in my chest, then reverberating through me like an earthquake.Beautiful, deep, seismic. My legs tremble on James’s broad shoulders, stars blinking in and out of my vision.
Once I’ve stopped shaking, James pushes to his feet and tears off his clothes. There’s no neatly setting them over chairs this time. He tosses each expensive item of clothing on the floor, eager to get to me. My mouth waters at the sight of his cock, standing hard and proud against his belly. He carefully positions his cock at my entrance, one hand holding my hip in place.
“I’ve got you,” he says, just before he thrusts halfway inside me.
I groan with satisfaction. Thank god he didn’t ease himself in, centimeter by centimeter. He gave me just about as much as I could handle. He lowers down over me, letting me feel the weight of his chest on mine. I wrap my legs around his waist, savoring the feeling of every place where we connect.
His strokes are long and slow, but he bottoms out roughly, hitting a spot inside me that makes me moan. It's the perfect combination of gentle and intense. One hand fondles my breasts. He pinches one nipple and when my back arches up, a wicked smile spreads across my face.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he says. “Fuckingmine.”
“Feels so good,” I whisper. “Just like that, James.”
He growls. “Did I ever tell you how much I love hearing you say my name?”
“Then I’ll say it more, James.” I smile, and he lowers down to capture my mouth with his. His tongue tangles hungrily with mine while his hand gently cups my face. He pulls away just for a breath.
“Never stop saying it,” he groans.
And I do say it, over and over as he sinks deep inside me. His hips keep rocking, hitting that spot deep inside me that makes my pussy clench. He works his hand between our bodies, strumming my clit and ratcheting up the pleasure. He holds melike I’m precious but fucks me like I’m powerful enough to take it.
It’s everything I ever wanted.
“I’m close, James,” I whisper, and his exacting pace falters for just a moment.
“Then come for me, wife,” he growls. “Let me feel you come.”
My body follows his orders, as if it would be impossible to do otherwise. My climax thunders through me like a rolling storm, dark and all-consuming. James thrusts through it, roaring out my name as he follows me over the edge.
His forehead falls against mine, and I giggle.
“What’s so funny?” he asks groggily.
“Nate is never going to let you borrow his conference room again.”
James laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him, and the warm sound of it buries deep into my heart.
39
MAURA
The delicious scent of warm coffee tugs me out of my nap. My mouth waters, and I force my heavy eyelids open.
I'm always slightly disoriented when I wake up on the couch James moved into my studio. It takes me a few moments to remember how I got here. A plastic sheet on the floor is covered with smashed pieces of quartz. Brinley was crushing them for me, I remember. At some point I got tired and laid down. Through the windows, the sky has grown dark. It's late afternoon. Brinley must have snuck out while I was sleeping
I rub my eyes and sit up. I must have been asleep for a few hours. I get tired more often now, thanks to the pregnancy hormones. My OB/GYN says that might improve in the second trimester, but for now, I live from nap to nap. The morning sickness has been bad enough, but the fatigue was ruining my routine.
There's a light knock on the door frame. I turn to see the welcome side of my husband holding a cup of coffee. “Decaf, obviously, but I thought you could use a pick-me-up.”
I moan and reach for it. “Yes, please.”
For the past few weeks, James has developed the habit of appearing in doorways while I'm painting in the studio or reading on the couch. It would be smothering if he hadn't mastered the art of checking in on me without hovering. He doesn't even bother asking me how I'm feeling anymore, now that he knows how tired I get of answering that question.
Instead, we've developed our own rituals. He brings me decaf coffee at 3:00 p.m. I steal bites of whatever he's eating for dinner. We argue about ridiculous things that don't matter, like whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn't, and I will die on this hill) or whichStar Warsmovie is the best (he saysEmpire; I sayA New Hope; we've agreed to disagree).
Last night, we spent twenty minutes debating whether a hot dog is a sandwich.
We're ridiculous. We argue about nothing and agree about everything that matters. And somewhere along the way, this contract marriage has become the most real thing I’ve ever had.
