“Yes, I want to do this,” I say. “Hell, yes.”
I dive down for another kiss, and our lips meld together as if they’re two halves of the same heart-shaped chocolate box. I squirm against his body, and he groans, gripping my hips tighter, need in his fingertips. I feel that need quivering through my own body like a living, breathing thing, like a force that won’t be contained. I’ve wanted this man since I first laid eyes on him at Margo’s. Now he’s beneath me on my own couch, pinned by my body, and I want to keep him prisoner there for the rest of his life.
Before I know it, I’ve ripped off my T-shirt and it’s on my floor, and in another second, the lacy bralette comes off, too. Jack stares at my nipples with a kind of reverence usually reserved for fine art in museums, as he first kisses one and then the other. Damn, I love a man who knows his way around an areola. I shiver beneath the man’s expert mouth and hands.I fumble with his shirt buttons, and he sits up, with me tumbling back a bit on the couch. He literallyripshis own shirt off, the buttons pinging off and scattering across the wood floor and I think I might just die of want right there. Can this man get sexier? Then I see his bare chest, strong, defined pecs, big, muscular shoulders, the kind I want to biteright now. Just a little nibble. That’s all, I tell myself. He’s got miles of muscle, and he’s stout, too, his abs not the no-carbs, no-fun, ridged kind, but the not-too-skinny, not-too-fat, not-gonna-make-you-feel-unworthy kind. In short, he’s 100 percent grade-Athat man.
I feather kisses down his neck, while he cups my girls with reverence. I haven’t had a man this enamored, this worshipful of my body since I don’t know how long. If ever.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers in my ear. “Completely gorgeous.”
The words feel like liquid molten lava straight to my core. They light me up from the inside, powering up all my buttons, sending electric sparks to every nerve ending in my body. Jack stands then, and I fight the urge to zip down his fly and show him just how much I appreciate him, but before I can, he reaches down, and puts my hands behind his neck. His gaze meets mine.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he says, and then he reaches down beneath my butt and lifts me, and I let him. I wrap my legs around him, only vaguely aware of the fact that I’m wearing only tights and a thong beneath.
“Yes,” I croak. “Let’s go.”
I’m kissing him, our bare chests pressed together as he carries me toward my bedroom. Jack kicks open the door likea lumberjack who doesn’t have the time or patience to use a doorknob. I only vaguely register Larry as he scrambles out of the way and runs into the living room. Jack kicks shut the door, and lays me down like a queen he plans to worship.
He stands at the foot of the bed and slowly unzips his fly, his jeans dropping to the floor. And I see him.
In all his bare glory. And there is lots. And lots. Of glory.
So.
Much.
Glory.
I push myself up on my elbows, and my jaw drops so hard I can hear the joint pop.
Did I mention the glory?
“Is this okay?” he asks me. And I know he means sex. In general. Because he’s getting consent, but it also sounds like he’s asking if his glory is okay.
“It’s more than okay,” I manage. Only then do I remember the condoms I keep in my bedside drawer. “Uh… I’ve got condoms…” I try to reach for the drawer, preparing myself for the backlash. The “I don’t like condoms” or “Do we have to” or “I really don’t like the feel of them” discussions that usually follow my attempts to practice safe sex. Most guys cave after small pushback, but I had one who outright refused. “I don’t believe in them,” he had said, as if condoms were like Santa Claus or organized religion. There’s nothing tobelievein. They’re latex. They protect against a bevy of STDs. But, no, he was adamant. So I showed him the door.
Jack, however, doesn’t even miss a beat. He reaches for the drawer and grabs one silently, one of only a few magnum-sized swimming around in the drawer from a gag gift I got fromNami’s bachelorette party last month. I never really thought I’d ever use them, except maybe to try my hand at making balloon animals. In seconds, he’s got it unsheathed and rolled down his impressiveness.
I already knew Marley was on the small side. And Dan was about average, but this… this in front of me. Hell, it’s a whole other category. Super-sized.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks me. “I just want to be sure you’re sure.” He hesitates as he stands between my spread legs, his glory completely at attention.
“Yes,” I say. “Oh, hell,yes.”
I wake up the next morning feeling wrapped in the perfect cocoon of snuggly warmth and realize that Jack has his beefy arms around me in bed, spooning me from behind, and there’s literally not a better feeling in the world. I’m sore, the very best kind of sore, from a night filled with the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. The kind of sex that makes me realize for all my adult life, I’ve been doing it wrong.
With the wrong people.
Becausethissex, this amazing, electric sex, should never, ever be boycotted.
I close my eyes and lean back into Jack’s strong, muscled chest and inhale, listening to his deep, rhythmic breaths. He’s still sleeping. Then my phone dings with an incoming message.
I think about ignoring it. Why break this beautiful moment? Why risk rousing Jack? But curiosity gets the best of me. I glance at the face of my phone and see Arial’s name.
Hey, Sora. Great news. Solo February is going bananas. I’ve got your extra-hefty freelance check. Thought I’d stop by and give it to you in person? I can drop by your condo on my way to work?
Wait. What?
Before I can text back that I’m indisposed, my buzzer sounds.
