Then he picks me up and carries me into the living room.
Somewhere along the way, he removed his pants, because when he sits on the rug in front of the blazing fire, he pulls me down directly on top of his massive hard on. My insides are still contracting and I want to ride him.
Hard.
I may have even said something to that effect, I can’t even remember.
But he says, “Slow down, baby. We’re doing this my way.” His hands are wrapped around my hips, slowing my motion. He pushes the fur off and kisses my shoulder. Then, while still slowly moving himself inside me, he takes my hand and kisses it.
I melt.
I’m not sure if it’s because of the fire on a hot day or him.
But I’m a fucking puddle.
And Vanessa Flanning is never a puddle.
We kiss, slowly at first, my hips moving in rhythm with his. His hold on me tightens.
Our kissing becomes deeper.
Our rhythm becomes faster.
I glance down, noticing how my hips seem to fit perfectly in his big hands.
He moves me up and down on top of him, faster and harder, giving me a frenzied burst of thrusting that causes my insides to tighten.
We’re both vocalizing our pleasure, when he shudders and gets suddenly still, leaning his head into my chest.
As he exhales, I caress his back, run my fingers through his hair, and kiss his temple.
Tears spring to my eyes as emotions run through me.
And I have no idea why.
This was supposed to be a hot fantasy fuck.
“Are those tears?” he asks. “Why?”
“Because no one has made me feel this way for a long time.” I say, admitting the truth and suddenly feeling very naked.
“No one has made me feel this way for a long time either,” he says.
“I liked your fantasy,” I tell him with a smile, trying to lighten things up. “Do you have any more?”
“You were the object of almost every fantasy I’ve had since the day I met you,” he says, which tugs at my heartstrings even more.
“I should have looked you up when I was in New York,” I say, suddenly wondering why I didn’t and wondering how different my life might have been if I had.
“Yeah, you should have. Let’s have some champagne, eat something, and if you’re good, I’ll show you some more of them. I’m assuming we’re not going to the event.”
I shake my head. “Nah.”
“Is there even an event?” he laughs.
“Yes, there is, but I gave away our tickets.”
“So you planned this?” he teases, handing me his white shirt to put on.
I can’t help but smile. “Well, I planned to show up like I did, but I didn’t know if you’d be interested.”
He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close. “I’d be a fool not to be interested. Tell me about the coat.”
“The coat?” I ask.
“Yeah, why the fur and not a trench coat? It’s hot out.”
“It’s soft?” I say, tentatively.
“And—?”
“Fine, it’s possible that I hate this coat. But it’s so incredibly beautiful. And I wanted to look nice for you tonight.”
“Vanessa, I love that you wanted to impress me, but I’m already impressed. I think you’re beautiful. Why do you hate the coat?”
“My ex bought it for me after he cheated on me.”
“He was trying to win you back?”
“Yes.”
He gives me a sweet kiss and touches the fur. “It’s my new mission to make this your favorite thing.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“We’re not done with the fur,” he says in a way that sounds almost like a threat to both my fur and my ex.
He leads me to the kitchen, where he grabs a tray of fruit, cheese, and nuts out of the fridge and opens the champagne.
“Are you expecting company?”
He laughs. “No, it’s a welcome gift. Keatyn thinks of everything.”
“Actually, Tyler thinks of everything.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to thank him then.” He hands me a flute and says, “To luxury spending.”
“And to fur,” I say with a laugh and take a sip. The bubbles go straight to my nose and cause me to sneeze.
“Bless you,” he says.
“Thanks.”
He picks a grape off the tray and feeds it to me.
I’m shocked by how natural it feels. How it doesn’t feel like I’m submitting, but rather he’s taking care of me.
And for a woman who’s trying hard to hold everything together, it’s really, really nice.
“So, um,” he says, “we’ve done it twice now without a condom. I keep meaning to ask, and I know it’s not very responsible of me, but . . .”
“I can’t get pregnant,” I admit.
“Why not?”
“Well, after I lost my baby—”
“Wait, what? When did that happen?”
“A few years ago. I was pregnant and miscarried at about four months.”
He moves quickly around the island and wraps me in his arms. “That must have been horrible for you.”
“It was. And I don’t know what all went wrong, but they told me I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant again.”
“I’m sorry. Your husband must have been crushed.”
“Uh, not exactly.”