Totally pussy-whipped.
But, no, this isn’t an act—at least not anymore. And, yes, I guess it was the girl I least expected who changed everything.
Instead of going to my place, I drive right to hers, finding parking a few blocks away, so I have to hoof it at almost ten o’clock at night, still in my travel clothes. The new door leading to her apartment has a keypad to unlock, and I hit the combination then take the stairs two at a time. “Honey, I’m home!”
Her door is open before I even have to knock, her smiling face greeting me.
And I have to remind myself to breathe.
Because of the sudden and overwhelming realization that I amhome.
“Hi, Nico.”
All I can think is she is the one I want greeting me when I come home for the rest of my life.
I kick the door shut behind me, briefly sweeping my gaze around, noticing the bouquets of sunflowers everywhere, brightening up this hole-in-the-wall. Before my mind can run wild with ideas of moving her out of here, I refocus in front of me and comb my fingers into her hair, holding her steady to brush my lips against hers. “Hi, Jojo.”
She curls her fingers around my wrists, tilting her head so I have more access to her mouth. She tastes faintly of chocolate and mint, her familiar scent wrapping around me. She is my quiet place, my soft landing, and I don’t know how I’ll be able to give her up after this season is over.
Walking her backward toward her bed, I’m not particularly gentle or smooth, and when I push her to the bed, she snickers. “Hello to you too.”
I can’t help the need riding me. The rush of adrenaline when she opened the door. I never expected Jo to come along in my life and knock everything off-balance, so it seems only fair she experiences a bit of the dizzying madness. No matter how minuscule it is.
She has to know…
Can’t she see what she does to me?
I crawl over her, my knees on either side of her hips, hands planted next to her shoulders as she gazes up at me with wide brown eyes. So expressive and full of something that looks a lot like adoration.
At least, I hope that’s what it is.
I bend, kissing and nipping at her until her lips are swollen and red patches mar the skin of her throat. Until she’s squirming beneath me, hands groping at me like she can’t get me close enough.
Pride swells in my chest. I did that, and I want to do so much more.
I want to make her feel so good she never wants me to leave.
I want to see her come undone and know I’m the one who did that to her.
Me.
Her fake fiancé.
Except, when I look down at her like this, it doesn’t feel fake. It feels like she’s mine and I’m hers, and when I kiss her again, she gives herself to me. Her legs parting so I can settle between them, her mouth opening so I can taste her. Her arms winding around my shoulders, holding me to her.
I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Holding myself above her, I skate my hand underneath her T-shirt and find her skin warm, her breasts bare and waiting for me. I palm one, thumb flicking over her nipple, and she arches into me, her body so responsive, I have to remind myself to go slow. Because Jo trusts me to do this with her, to be the only one to have this experience with her.
Keeping my hand where it is, I shift to move down her body, skimming my lips over her collarbone and then lower over her exposed skin when I push her shirt up. I drag my mouth over the soft curve of her stomach and the dip of her belly button. Along the ladder of her ribs to the curve of her breast and her stiff dark-pink nipple, begging for my mouth.
So I cover it, sucking it between my lips while I pinch the other, and she cries out, back bowing.
Fucking perfect.
I squeeze and play, palming one of her plump mounds and then the other. They’re big and heavy, teardrop-shaped, and I spend minutes—hours, who knows, because I’m lost to her—listening to the little hitches in her breath, feeling the mindless way she repeatedly tightens her legs around my hips, as if she is afraid I’ll stop.
Never.
