“Say it, baby. Go on and say it.”
I can feel her winding around me, her pussy tensing around my shaft, see the flush deepening on her chest, the muscles of her neck growing taut. She’s a bomb, primed to explode. I pause, and then thrust into her, deep as I can, and she grabs my shoulders tighter, as though I’m her raft in the storm.
“I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, baby. There’s my girl.”
And she does. A long, lingering orgasm that wracks her whole body and sends me straight to the edge. I spill over with the force of a jackhammer, bracing myself against the sofa, my orgasm juddering through me, a hot, overwhelming rush.
“Fuck.”
We lie there. Sweat-drenched. Cum-drunk. Out of breath. When I’ve recovered a little, I roll off her, onto the sofa, and pull her to my chest, cradling her there, feeling her heart race against mine.
For a second, the emotion that grips me is so strong, I can’t breathe. Every second I spend with her, I fall harder. Already, I can see us in twenty years, her hair with streaks of silver in it, my back hurting a little more, dancing in the kitchen, carrying her up to our bed at night.
These are dangerous waters I’m swimming in.
Tomorrow is the wedding.
After that. Then we’ll see.
For now, the feeling of her in my arms is enough.
For now, it’s everything.
Chapter Thirty-One
Rowan
A beam of sunlight hits my eyes when I blearily blink them open, laser bright. It takes me a moment to orient myself: the sloping ceiling, criss-crossed by oak beams, the crisp blue sheets, the dresser scattered with cufflinks and ties, the simple, almost utilitarian decor, none of it is familiar.
Then Angus stirs beside me, and I remember.
His cock, hard as anything, his rasping breath, the way his eyes rolled back as he tipped over the edge.
The last thing I remember is curling up on his chest. He must have carried me upstairs, laid me in this bed. I study him: his mouth half-open in sleep, those wide, kissable lips, the frown line still etched between his brows, his jawline covered by a light bristling of stubble.
Behind him, an alarm clock glares at me: seven am.
Shit.
I’m supposed to be helping Sophie get ready in less than thirty minutes. She and Mum are probably already up, cups of tea steaming as they start to prep. What if they come to my room and find I’m not there? Sophie is already pissed enough. I don’t want to give her any more reasons to be upset.
Should have thought of that last night.
But then I wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have this.
Reluctantly, I push back the duvet and scramble out of bed. Angus doesn’t stir. I don’t know if I should wake him, so I decide to let him sleep. Last night was… perfect, but it also stirred feelings that I’m not ready to face.
Being here, meeting his family, his friends: behind the grumpy veneer, the off-hand jokes, it’s clear how deeply Angus cares for this place, and the people in it. This is his home. Where he’s laid his roots. He belongs here, the same way the deer belong in the forest, the birds in the sky.
I can’t take him from it.
He needs the hills, and the fields, and his home.
And I? I don’t know what I need. Where I belong. I feel lost, unmoored, out on the ocean without a compass.
Don’t lead him on – not unless this is really what you want. Not unless you can be there for him, thick and thin.
