He needed her now, and once he’d jerked open her blouse, he ordered her to “Raise up.”
Their position was awkward, the conditions cramped, but Kell managed to lift his hips, push his pants to his knees, find his wallet and a condom. Once sheathed, he grasped Jamie by the ass and urged her into place, catching his breath when the head of his cock brushed her belly.
While she settled her knees on either side of his hips, he fumbled for the catch that released the seat and laid it flat. Jamie hovered above him, her hands gripping the padded leather on either side of his shoulders, her bent legs pressed tightly to his.
He reached between her thighs with one hand, slid his index finger through her wet folds, parting them, then pushed his middle finger inside her as far as he could. He added a second, and she gasped, then gripped him.
His cock throbbed. His blood heated. He struggled to breathe. His heart beat in a rhythm that further constricted a chest already tight with emotion. It was a rhythm brought on by this thing with Jamie. This thing that was more than sex. A more he didn’t know what to do with yet. A more he wasn’t sure his life was ready for.
His free arm across her back urged her down, and he found a nipple with his tongue and drew it into his mouth, rolling it and latching on. This he could do. This he knew how to enjoy, to savor, to give. He sucked on her, he fingered her. He smiled against her when she squirmed.
And when she begged, “Kell, please,” he let her go, held her hips, and guided her body into place above his. She lowered herself slowly, found the head of his cock, opened for him and slid all the way down. Then she sat, stilled, did nothing but squeeze him with her muscles inside.
This time, he was the one to beg. “Jamie, don’t.”
She leaned over him, planting her elbows and forearms on the seat above his shoulders, her mouth hovering inches from his as she began to move. She lifted her hips until only the head of his cock was inside her. She lowered her sex until she’d swallowed the length of his shaft. She gyrated in a slow figure eight. She pumped up and down in piston-like strokes, fast, then slow, then slower. She made love to him as if she wanted to make sure he’d never forget.
As if that would ever happen. Kell swore he was going to die before he got a chance to come. He clenched the muscles of his legs, crunched his abs and grabbed Jamie where her ass met her thighs, pulling them open, thrusting up and burying himself all the way to his balls.
She kissed him then, covered his mouth with hers and sent her tongue seeking, her lips nibbling, her teeth nipping. She kissed him like kissing was the best part of sex, and he wasn’t sure he could disagree. She let him into her mouth, giving him that pleasure as she gave him her body. He was ripe with waiting and ready to burst.
He pulled his mouth away, needing it to breathe, and drove himself into her again and again. She rested her forehead on his, breathing just as hard as he was, breathing his air, breathing him in and riding him, up and down, meeting his strokes.
And then she came, arching up and crying out as if the sudden rush of sensation caught her unawares, drowning her, sucking her into the same whirlwind that had tightened around him and squeezed.
That was it. He was done. One last thrust and he let everything go, feeling as if he were being turned inside out with each pulse of semen he shot. He grunted. It was the only sound he could make, the only sound that fit with the primal urge he had to own her.
She collapsed against him, her breasts flat on his chest, her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He wrapped her up in his arms and held her there, still connected, cocooned safely together in the darkness, thinking it might just be a very long time before either of them wanted to move.
11
BY THE TIME JAMIE finished pulling herself together in Kell’s bathroom, he’d whipped up a huge lunch of bacon, lettuce, tomato, onion and cheese sandwiches, with tomato soup and Cheetos. Bachelor fare. Because he was a bachelor. A confirmed one at that.
She was surprised at his house, the very Martha Stewart decor. She wondered if his mother had decorated the place because she’d visited and found him living out of boxes or with dorm-room furniture or even with no furnishings at all.Then she wondered how long he’d lived here, how many women he’d brought home to share his bed. She didn’t know why she was wondering that; it was none of her business, and this strange sense of possessiveness stirring her made little sense. It wasn’t as if they’d exchanged vows while in the garage.
The bathroom Kell had pointed her to when they’d finally made it inside had perfumed soaps and guest towels and nothing to indicate the shower had ever seen use. She’d thought at first he might join her. She had almost asked him to.
He’d hesitated in the doorway as if he wasn’t ready to walk away, or to let her out of his sight, or to lose her. His belt had been hanging loose, his crisp white shirt untucked, his expression as rumpled and used as the rest of him, uncertain, spent. But then he’d backed away, and told her he’d clean up in the master bath. Said for her to take her time, he’d have their very late lunch ready when she was.
And so she hadn’t said anything, just nodded and closed the door, leaning against it and shutting her eyes, hoping to calm the rush of blood through her veins and catch her breath. She’d tied up her hair and stayed beneath the warm spray for twenty minutes. But her legs were still shaking when she followed the smell of the food to the kitchen and found him setting the table for two.
Soupspoons in hand, Kell looked up. He was freshly shaven, his skin glowing, his hair still damp and sticking up here and there. As usual, he had on jeans, but he was barefoot instead of in boots, and wearing a faded maroon Texas A&M T-shirt that showed off his shoulders and arms in ways his dress shirts never could.
He straightened and smiled, stopping what he was doing to stare at her as she stood in the doorway. The moment went on too long, the silence, the snap, crackle, pop of tension in the air, and he cleared his throat, saying, “I wasn’t sure what you’d like. If you’re not into bacon, I’ve got turkey. Or chicken noodle soup instead of the tomato.”
“The tomato is fine. The bacon is fine. And I love Cheetos more than any other chip.” She came farther into the room, pushed from behind by urgency, feeling the sizzle between them nipping at her skin. She wasn’t sure if she should sit, or help, or get drinks…
“Do you want me to—”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t be sorry. I was just as much—”
“Waiting was just too hard—”
“I know. It was. It still is. I want—”
“You want? What? Tell me—”
“To eat?” she ended with because otherwise they were going to linger here forever, wanting each other, and starve.
“Yeah,” he said, dipping his head with a small laugh. “That’s probably a good idea.”
Jamie took a big breath, felt better when she blew it out and most of the stress she’d been holding in with it. She padded the rest of the way across the cool red brick tiles to the circular table and the chair Kell had pulled out for her.
He sat in the chair to her right. There was enough distance between them that neither their arms nor their thighs brushed, but she still felt the heat of his body, the pull of his nearness, the draw. It was hard not to remember the way he’d touched her, the way he’d filled her. He’d been so thick and full, and he’d reached so deep.
She tamped down a rising flood of desire and forced her trembling hand to still before picking up her spoon. She couldn’t, however, stop herself from clenching the muscles of her sex. God, but she wanted him again. “This all smells so good. Thank you.”
“It’s soup and sandwiches. Took all of ten minutes to throw together,” he said, but then when he noticed the arch of her brow, added, “You’re welcome.”
“That’s better. It may be just soup and sandwiches, but you prepared it, and all I have to do is eat.” She dipped up a spoonful of soup, blew softly across the surface, and before she ate, added, “And that makes me very happy.”
“Good. I like making you happy,” he came back with, and she thought she was going to choke.
She took a minute to clear her throat. “So far, you’ve done just about everything right. But then, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not hard to please.”
This time he was the one who almost spit sandwich crumbs everywhere. He got up and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge, handed her one and gulped down a big swallow of his before responding. “I guess there’s something to be said for low maintenance.”
“Exactly.” She set down her spoon, popped back a Cheeto and chewed. “If I were high maintenance, I’d prefer a pomegranate cocktail to the Jim Beam, a salad of arugula and mixed greens to the Cheetos, and Egyptian cotton to GMC’s leather beneath my knees.”
He tensed, lifted his spoon and let it hover over his bowl. “I don’t think you have to be high maintenance to prefer soft sheets to a truck seat.”
He stopped, though she could tell he had more to say. She prompted him to go on. “But?”
He set down his spoon, rested his wrists on the table’s edge, stared down at his food. “I’m just wondering if you being easy to please means you won’t slap me silly when I tell you I really don’t want to eat.”