Page 147 of Property of Bob

He kissed me slowly, his hand moving over my side, my hip, slipping between my thighs. I was already wet when his fingers found me, and the sound he made sent heat flooding through my chest. “Bob.”

“I’ve got you.” His mouth was at my neck, my collarbone, and then lower. “Let me.”

I did. I let him ease my legs apart, let him trace me with his fingertips until I was arching into his touch until I was saying his name like a prayer and a complaint all at once. He watched me the whole time, his eyes dark and his jaw tight with the effort of going slow.

When he finally guided himself inside me, we both stopped. His forehead rested against mine. His breathing was heavy. So was mine.

His eyes stayed locked on me. “You good?”

I smiled, half-laughing, half-breathless. “Really fucking good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed me. Then he moved.

Slowly at first. Deep, unhurried strokes that filled me completely and then retreated until I was chasing him, pulling him back. He kept one hand threaded through mine against the mattress, his grip tight while the other traced my breast, my waist, the place where we were joined. Every time I made a sound, he answered it with a kiss or with a shift of his hips that sent pleasure sparking up my spine.

Sweet wasn’t a word I’d ever thought I’d use for Bob. Sultry, maybe. Sexy, absolutely. Stubborn. Bossy. Annoying. But there was something incredibly sweet about the way he stayed close. The way his mouth kept finding mine, and the way he checked my face between every few movements like he was memorizing me.

Nothing about it felt casual.

I wrapped my legs around him and let myself have this. Have him.

His rhythm built gradually, never rough, never rushed. When I came, it was with his name on my lips and his hand firm at the small of my back, holding me close while I shook apart. He followed not long after, his body going still and then shuddering, his face buried in my shoulder with my name rough against my skin.

Afterward, he didn’t roll away. He stayed inside me, stayed close, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on my hip while our breathing slowed.

“Still worried I need a nap?” he murmured.

I laughed, the movement making him exhale sharply. “No.”

“Good.”

He kissed my shoulder, my jaw, finally my mouth—soft and unhurried, like we had all the time in the world.

There was no Skull Island. No killer. No campground in Iowa. No RV sitting outside ready to take me anywhere I wanted to go.

There was only Bob.

The man I’d driven three days to find. The man who wasn’t Ashland anymore, even though there would probably always be a little bit of Ashland somewhere inside him. And the man I was quickly realizing I wasn’t going to be able to walk away from without leaving something important behind.

Bob’s arm was around me and my fingers moved lazily over his stomach.

Neither one of us had said much since we’d finished. Mostly because I was still trying to get my brain working again.

Bob’s fingers slid through my hair. “Well?”

I lifted my head. “Well what?”

“You done worrying I’m gonna die from having sex with you?”

I smacked his stomach.

He laughed.

“Don’t say that.”