She opened her mouth to say something, and he braced himself for rejection even as his body howled at the prospect. Then she blinked again, and his breath left his body in a whoosh when she reached for the bottom of her shirt and pulled it over her head, taking her cardigan with it.
He could hardly breathe. She sat before him, bare from the waist up. Confident as hell and looking more desirable than a woman had a right to. He wanted to take his time; he wanted to touch, to lick, to taste every part of her body.
But need vibrated through him, and when he felt the answering rhythm in her body, there was no other choice about what he’d do.
Sliding his hands under her ass as he rose, he took a short detour to the bathroom to grab the condoms he’d tossed in his bag, with more hope than expectation, then strode into her room. By the time he lowered her to the bed, she’d managed to use her thighs to push his sweats down, over his hips.
Splayed topless across the comforter, she eyed him as he kicked his sweats the rest of the way off, then yanked his hoodie over his head. Tossing the condoms on the bed, he knelt before her, hooking his fingers on her silk pants and taking them down with him, catching her socks as his hands skimmed down her calves.
When her clothes joined his on the floor, he lifted his gaze straight to the core of her. Daphne Parks was wet. For him. He gave no warning before sliding his arms under her thighs, dragging her forward, and setting his mouth on her. He didn’t take his time; he didn’t savor or ease her toward an orgasm. No, he threw her, threw them both, into it at full steam. She widened her thighs and arched into him, demanding more. Sliding two fingers inside her, he sucked and licked and caught parts of her flesh with his teeth.
Desperate to hear her come, he worked her harder, his fingers and mouth demanding her submission. Fleetingly, he considered it might be too much, but when a rush of heat ran down his palm and she clamped around his fingers, her back arching in a near-silent scream, he redoubled his efforts. And was rewarded. Dear god, was he rewarded.
Her taste, her essence, flooded through him as her breath froze and her body gripped him, pulsing around his fingers. When the spasms eased, then slowed, he kissed his way up her belly to her breasts. Pausing there, he slid his free hand under her back. With the other still buried inside her, he shifted her toward the top of the mattress, joining her on the bed as he made space.
Lifting his lips from her breast, he brought them down to her mouth, sliding his fingers from her wet heat and curling them around her hip. Her tongue met his stroke for stroke, her slim fingers digging into the skin of his neck and scalp, the pain sharpening the pleasure.
Without breaking their kiss, he rolled a condom on, grabbed hold of her hip, tipped her pelvis up, then thrust in.
With her ankles locked around his lower back, Daphne released a breath of pleasure laced with pain. But he gave her no quarter. Sensed she didn’t want any. Pulling out, he thrust in again.
Heaven. There was no other word to describe it. So caught up in the fierce sensations bombarding his body, he didn’t think too much about what that meant, though. All he knew, in that moment, was that nothing had ever felt better than her response to him.
Her legs tightened around him as her nails scored his back. Shifting a hand underneath her, he wrapped his fingers around her shoulder, gripping her, holding her still, as he moved inside her.
Dragging her lips from his, she arched her back, her breasts brushing against his chest, as she teetered on another orgasm. Widening her thighs and curling her hips an inch upward, he got the message. On his next thrust, he paused, burying himself deep inside her and rocking his pelvis against her.
Her breath caught, and he did it again and again and again until her fingers dug painfully into his flesh. The bed shook, the headboard hitting the wall with every push of his body against hers, as he pressed deeper and deeper.
Her mouth opened, and the sounds she made, as if she couldn’t keep them inside, nearly sent him over the edge before her. But then he felt it. The blossom of heat that preceded the spasm of her body. A beat later, her body clamped onto his, squeezing him tight, begging him to release inside her.
He couldn’t refuse her demand, and with five more thrusts, the last driving her against the headboard, he threw his head back. Pleasure so intense it bordered on pain exploded through his body as his orgasm sent shock waves from his fingers to thesoles of his feet. His chest squeezed, his stomach locked, his toes curled, and all the while, everything inside him zeroed in on Daphne, zeroed in on her body pulling his inside her, on her skin flush against his, on the keening, needy whimper that escaped her throat.
They remained locked in that moment of bliss, their bodies demanding everything from the other, until neither had anything left to give. Slowly, the intensity eased, and he dropped his head, forcing breaths into his lungs. In and out, in and out. Propped up on one arm, he was dimly aware of the movement of Daphne’s chest, too, the rise and fall of her breasts almost in sync with his.
Her hands slid from his back to rest on his forearms, her fingers curled lightly around his skin. Her hips relaxed, sinking back into the bed, though her ankles stayed locked behind his back.
An unusual, though not unexpected, flutter of nerves teased his stomach. He’d thoroughly fucked his brother’s sister-in-law, a woman so far out of his league they weren’t even in the same game.
Lifting his head, he met her gaze. Primal satisfaction coursed through his body at the sated look on her face. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his body stirred again.
This might not be a good idea, but if he had any say in the matter, he intended to do it again. And again. And again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Daphne drummed her fingertips on the kitchen counter as the coffee brewed. James, as he’d asked her to call him last night, still slept. In her bed. A bed whose joints and frame had been well tested the night before. She shifted at the memories, a twinge of discomfort heating her upper thighs. She hadn’t had a night like that in, well, ever. The closest she could think of were a few encounters in her early twenties when alcohol-infused hormones raged, encouraging her inhibitions to drop. But while the quantity might have been similar, the quality sure as hell hadn’t. Lovell—James—had pushed her in ways she’d never been pushed. She wasn’t sure what that said about her, or him, but there was no arguing with the outcome. Oroutcomes, as the case may be.
The coffee beeped, and she poured herself a cup before ambling to the couch and taking a seat. She’d started a fire first thing, and flames now licked the top of the fireplace. Curling a leg underneath her, she covered her lap with a throw blanket.
Staring at the fire, her mind bounced from memories of the last nine hours to the gray skies threatening another storm, to Weeks. She hadn’t heard from the police yet, and she wondered if Ryan and his team had managed to get him talking.
A gust of wind rattled the window, and the most common of common winter questions popped into her head—what was the forecast? Grabbing her phone, she checked the weather. Sure enough, another storm was moving in. Not as big as the one the other night, but big enough that they should consider restocking their shelves. The heated driveway ensured they’d be able to reach the main road, but the plows prioritized the town and surrounding neighborhoods before hitting the east side. Or so Callie had told her when she learned Daphne planned to stay there.
Thinking of her sister, she tapped her contacts, and a few seconds later, the phone rang.
“Hey,” Callie said, sounding fresh out of bed. Or still in bed, but newly awake.
“This a bad time?” Daphne asked.
