Page 14 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Bouncer

He grabs a condom from his wallet and tosses it onto the bed beside me.

The confidence in it should annoy me. Instead, it does something entirely unhelpful to the rest of my body, and by the time he's back on the bed, back over me, back where I want him, I've stopped needing any of my old systems at all.

His hands roam all over me again. “Damn, Spreadsheets, these soft curves of yours are lethal.” His hands land on my extra-soft stomach and I try to suck in, but who am I kidding? There’s too much there. For once though, I’m not overthinking it, not with how Archer is caressing me and kissing me. Then he moves to my breasts cupping both of them in his large palms, holding them up to his mouth like they’re an offering, and he sucks one tight nipple into his mouth, and I gasp as he flicks his tongue and rubs his teeth around it.

“Oh, damn, Archer.”

He swirls his tongue to soothe it, then moves to the other nipple and does the same thing. All the while tightening the invisible cord to my pussy, making me flutter and crave having him fill me up.

He takes his time, despite my protests, despite my hands fisting in the sheets and my hips chasing him like they've got a mind separate from the rest of me. Every place his mouth goes, every place his hands map, feels like something I’ve been waiting a lifetime for.

I moan and mumble, incoherently because all I am at this point is a puddle full of pleasure and need.

“I need you ready for me, Spreadsheets. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I hurt you, so I've got to make sure you are soaked.”

He lowers his hand to my core and cups my mound, and I arch off the bed. “Oh, you are ready for me. You’re being such a good girl.” Working me with the palm of his hand, he dives his mouth to mine and kisses me with everything he possesses, and I respond in kind.

“Archer,” I moan into his mouth.

“I got you, baby.” He grabs the condom and rolls it on before lining himself at my entrance, and when he sinks into me, slow, careful, watching my face for every flicker, I understand for the first time what every overwrought paperback I've ever read was actually describing. Not the mechanics. The connection. The way two people can be pressed together so completely that the line between them stops making sense.

"Archer." His name comes out wrecked, half plea, half prayer.

"Right here." His forehead drops to mine, breath ragged, moving slow and deliberate, like he's got no intention of letting either of us rush past a single second of this. "Not going anywhere."

We move together as if we've done this before, in some other life, some other version of two strangers who found each other through a landlord's mis-dialed digit. He says my name as if it means something. I say his like it's the only word I've got left worth keeping.

I’ve never felt so cherished, cared for, dare I say it, loved. The way he moves over me and inside me, it’s like I’m finally connected to someone and I never want to let it go.

Archer gazes into my eyes the whole time, giving me sweet kisses all over my face.

I squeeze his back as white-hot heat flows over my body and burst with pleasure as I come the hardest I ever have in my life. I scream and shatter all at the same time. Archer continues to thrust inside me, working me through my orgasm, prolonging the experience. His jaw is locked tight, and his body is strained with holding back to make sure it’s good for me. I kiss along his jaw. “Let go, Archer. Come for me.”

Archer shouts my name, gripping the sheets around me as he remains on his forearms on top of me, and jerks while he releases inside me, and it’s incredible. No, spectacular. And maybe one day soon, we won’t need the condom, because I want to feel all of him.

Afterward, he pulls me against him, tucks me into the curve of his body as if it's a place I've always belonged, and holds on in a way nobody ever has. Not like my ex, not the two forgettable men before him, nobody. Just steady arms and a heartbeat under my ear that hasn't slowed down yet.

"You were serious," I say into his chest, once I trust my voice again. "About the date."

"Yeah. Serious." His hand moves along my spine, slow, absent, like he can't quite stop touching me now that he's started. "But I want a lot more than one date, Spreadsheets." A pause, weighted. "You're mine now. For life. Better get used to it."

I laugh, mostly because the alternative is crying, and I've had enough emotional whiplash for one week without adding that to the pile. "I think I can add you as a column."

"Fuck that." His arms tighten, a low rumble of something that's almost offended and almost delighted at once. "I better be your whole sheet."

Before I can respond, his fingers find my ribs, and I discover, shrieking and laughing and completely undignified, that the grumpy bouncer who guards a door like it owes him money is also, apparently, ruthless with a tickle.

"I never expected this side of you." I gasp it out between attempts to escape a man twice my size who is not, in fact, letting me go anywhere. "I love it."

He stops and lifts my chin, gazing into my eyes. “Only for you.” I can sense the meaning behind his words. The three little words he wants to say, but knows it’s too soon. But I’m happy with “only for you” because to us they mean the same thing. For now.

“Only for you, too.”

Epilogue

Archer

One Year Later