“You have me.”
He wraps his arms around me and holds on tight, hugging me so close, I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. I love being tangled up in him. I’m not ready for him to let go when he kisses my forehead and pulls back, just a few inches, so he can look down into my eyes.
“Come home with me. Lie down with me. I want to talk about nothing with someone who means something.”
I smile and nod. He takes my hand, squeezing three times, and leads me toward the inn.
I’ll ask him what it means later.
***
I’ve learned in the past two days that makeup sex is all it’s cracked up to be. I’m pretty sure he’s fucked me against every wall, on every surface in his house, more than once.
I have muscles screaming in places that I didn’t know I had muscles.
But today, we’ve taken a break from the crazy sex, and actually put real clothes on to paint the sunroom downstairs.
The new windows are in, and I’m in love with them. They’re floor-to-ceiling, and each is split into nine panes, giving the house the original charm it would have been built with almost two hundred years ago. The hardwoods will go in after we paint, which is good because Declan is a messy painter.
“You’ve dropped more on the floor than you’ve managed to roll on the wall,” I comment lazily and continue to paint the trim around the window, my back to him.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” he says, just as lazily.
“You heard me.”
“You want to criticize my painting?” he asks. He’s closer to me now, but I resist the urge to look over my shoulder to see what he’s doing.
Bad move.
I suddenly feel two drops hit my head and I whirl around, my brush out, and paint a perfect stripe over the middle of his chest, also getting one arm marked as well.
He looks down, then up at me and cocks a brow.
I’m in trouble. Think fast.
“You dropped paint on my head.”
“You painted my chest.”
“And your arm,” I add, then bite my lip so I don’t laugh.
“This was my favorite T-shirt,” he says, stalking after me as I back away from him.
“You have a hundred black T-shirts,” I point out reasonably, but his eyes narrow, and I know that unless I think fast, I’m going to end up with paint rolled down the front of me.
So I stop backing away and stand my ground. I drop the brush on the floor and hold my hands up. “I’m not armed.”
“Have you ever looked at someone and thought, I just want to treat her like no one else ever has?” he says softly, completely throwing me for a loop.
He lowers the roller to his side, but continues to stare at me, as if he’s trying to decide what to do with me, but he doesn’t have a chance to follow through because I pull myself together and step forward, press my breasts to his chest and slide my hand under the waistband of his jeans, grinning when I cup his cock and find him already hard.
“Me painting you turns you on?” I whisper against his lips.
“You just breathing turns me on,” he replies softly, then closes his eyes as I pump him twice before unfastening his jeans and letting them drop to his ankles.
“How convenient,” I say as I squat and lick him from root to tip. “No underwear.”
“I do what I can,” he replies and drops the roller. Paint spatters on my pants and arm, but I don’t care. “I had you an hour ago, and I want you all over again.” His voice is hard. I glance up as he buries his hand in my hair and tightens his fist, holding it firmly.
“I haven’t done this in at least a day,” I reply and take him deeply into my mouth, sinking down until the tip reaches the back of my throat, and I swallow, massaging him and making me growl in pleasure.
I grip the shaft with my lips and pull up, drag my teeth, barely touching him, over the head.