Then his fingers flicked against her back, and the bra went the way of the shirt, and in silent agreement, she lifted up to remove the rest of her clothes while he did the same.
“Bedroom?” he asked, standing above her.
In response, she placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back to the couch before launching herself on him once more.
If their kiss had been slow and purposeful, the pace now was frantic, as hands and lips grew greedy and restless. And when she reached between their bodies to stroke him he groaned and lifted his hips to hers.
“Damn it, Sims. Now.”
She pulled back with a frustrated moan, tapping a finger against his chest. “Don’t. Move.”
She disappeared into the bedroom, coming back seconds later with a condom that he tore open and rolled on in record time before pulling her down once more to straddle him.
Her hands found his face, pulling him into a hot kiss as his hands found her hips, guiding her until she was poised above him. He paused for a heartbeat before pulling her down, sliding in inch by inch until they were as close as two people could be.
Luc pulled back from the kiss just enough to meet her eyes. He lifted a questioning eyebrow, and somehow she knew exactly what he was asking.
Me or you?
In response she lifted up slowly before sinking down on him again. She repeated the motion, even slower this time, and she gave him a silent response. Me. I’m in control.
Ava alternated between fast and hard and slow and torturous, Luc’s hands on her hips as he let her ride him.
And when she leaned over him resting her face against his shoulder, asking him to touch her, he did, his hand sliding down to press her clit in a perfect rhythm as he rocked up into her.
Ava came first—how could she not with a guy like Luc Moretti beneath her?—and when she collapsed against his chest, he let her, stroking her back and letting her savor the sweet aftermath of her orgasm instead of immediately seeking his own.
When she finally caught her breath, she put her hands on his shoulders to sit upright, the contact slightly slippery from their sweat, and narrowed her eyes at him.
“You really are a good guy, aren’t you?”
He grinned, quick and easy, before sitting up and catching her lip gently between his teeth. “Am I?”
Then his arms went around her as he thrust up once into her, hard, so her arms went around his neck and held on as he plunged in and out of her, his pace quickening until he came with a groan, and she could have sworn she heard him whisper one word. Ava.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Three days before Luc had to sit in a leather chair and spill his guts on national television as the grand finale of this America’s Hero bullshit, he had a revelation:
He needed closure.
Actually, that wasn’t the revelation.
He’d always known he needed closure; it was the how that had been eluding him for two years.
Therapy hadn’t worked.
Neither had ignoring the memories.
Exercise hadn’t been the answer, nor had losing himself in work. It wasn’t losing himself in sex with nameless women.
It hadn’t even been the support of his family, which had gone deeper than he’d even realized.
But he hoped closure was here, in a homey Brooklyn walk-up with a tiny patch of grass doubling as the yard and a blue bike in the front.
Joey’s bike. Who’d taught him to ride it? Not his dad. His dad was dead.
Luc shook his head.
That’s not what this was about.
Taking a deep breath, he headed up the steps, his hand hesitating only briefly before he forced himself to knock.
The door opened almost immediately, and a dark-haired boy with hazel eyes stood before him.
Joey.
He looked so much like Mike, it physically hurt.
But as much as Luc wanted to sink to one knee and simply stare at the boy, he knew better.
“Hey, bud. You remember me?”
“Sure,” the eight-year-old said with a shrug. “Uncle Luc.”
The old nickname was like a vise on Luc’s heart. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s Uncle Luc.”
The boy stepped aside. “Where’s your gun?”