When I’m done, I’m still like a junkie, thinking of having him inside me. “When you make love to me again, I want you to stay inside me. All night, swear to me, part of you will be inside me, just like you promised.”
He turns my face at an angle he seems to want me at and cradles the back of my head as he sucks my tongue like he’s starved for it. “I’m going to f**k you for every night I haven’t f**ked you and then I’m going to stay in you.”
He exhales slowly as if the thought alone got him all worked up, and his breath is warm on my face as he waits for my consent.
When I nod, he smiles his lazy, heavy-lidded smile at me; I smile back.
I feel happy. Complete. Like the world is spinning in the right direction tonight.
He takes some extra time grooming and petting me, doing all his fun stuff with me that makes all the butterflies in my tummy have trouble letting me settle down. I’m so weak I only moan and whisper how good it feels, and he whispers how good I taste, and how good I feel.
When he’s done bathing inches and inches of my shoulder, throat, and ear with his tongue, and done petting his hand down my side, he spoons me with his bigger, harder body and our legs entwine like pretzels, and I sigh as we fall asleep. In the middle of the night he sometimes shifts his nose until he buries it in my skin. I reach behind me and caress his hair groggily, turn in his arms so I can smell him, absorbing every sensation of being back in bed with the only man I’ve ever been in love with.
And it feels like home has finally come to me.
TWELVE
HERE WE GO
Two days later we’re still in the same hotel room, and I wake up with the most delicious sense of well-being when I notice that he’s watching me. He’s propped up on one arm, his muscles bulging. His sexy black hair is fully standing and he wears the lazy, sensual smile of a man who’s been satisfied to a near-coma, and he looks so sexy in bed I want to eat him with a spoon. I make a purring noise as I roll to my side to face him.
“I don’t want to leave this bed,” I whisper, sliding a fingertip along one of his Celtic tattoos.
He strokes a hand down my arm, and the feathery tenderness in the caress is almost unbearable. He kisses the hollow of my ear. “Who do you belong to?” he asks softly. Again, his eyes tell me I’m his.
“You.”
Reaching out, he squeezes me so hard against him, I gasp. “That’s right!”
An odd little laugh leaves me, and it kind of sounded like a giggle. “You will never stop asking me that, will you? Oh, I hate you! Did you hear that? You made me giggle.”
Laughing, he rolls me underneath his big body, and I hit his chest with one fist.
“You f**king made me giggle, and you didn’t even say anything funny!”
“I f**king loved it. Giggle again now.”
“Never!” I laugh, and it sounds like a goddamn giggle.
I hate giggling, but the genuine delight in his dancing blue eyes fills me with so much happiness, my chest feels like a detonated grenade as he laughs, and I continue to freaking giggle.
When he’s sober, he surveys my face, feature by feature, and as the air shifts between us, our smiles fade. His body is crushing mine. His pecs smashing my br**sts. His weight trapping me. I love it so much, even when it hurts to take a full breath.
His eyes turn liquid with love as he leans over and presses his lips over mine for three delicious heartbeats. We use no tongues, only the pressure of soft, dry lips, so full of love I could almost levitate.
My hands roam up the muscular planes of his back. “When do you leave?” I breathe.
“As late as possible and still be on time for the next match.”
My hurt and disappointment seem to show on my face, for he tightens his hold on me as he eases to his side and brings me with him.
“Are you happy here? Are you treated well?” He nuzzles my temple.
“Nobody treats me or understands me like you. Except Mel.”
“And your parents?”
“They love me” is all I say. I’m about to say they may not be too thrilled about our circumstances right now, but then I look into this man’s eyes and realize he doesn’t have parents who support and care about him, and I realize how very lucky I am. “Did you feel unloved when your parents didn’t come back?” I ask him.
“Not unloved. Misunderstood.”
He speaks casually, like it’s truly nothing to him but a bland fact. A fact that breaks my heart every time I think about it.
“Oh, Remy. I’m so sorry. I hate them for doing this to you.”
He gets up and grabs his lounge pants and I know he’s going to want to go eat—of course. “Why? I didn’t hurt. Why are you sorry? I’m still going to be a good father.” He winks at me. “It’s because they were so shitty that I will be a good father.”