I kiss her softly, nibbling at her lips and sliding my hands into her hair. More pins fly loose and her hair tumbles into my hands. My chest fills with a tenderness I can’t handle, and I deepen the kiss, knot my hand into her hair and pull until she cries out.
“God, please,” she murmurs as I latch on to her neck.
That tenderness inside me won’t scatter. Don’t let me use you, Liz. But this moment—in the steam of the spa, shrouded in night—this isn’t about the campaign or my appearance to the press. This is just about me, and Liz. It’s just about this undeniable chemistry we’ve always had. It’s about pleasure and need and nothing else.
I cup her breasts in my hands and dip my head to give attention to each nipple, laving one, then the other, before I return to the first and suck it between my teeth. Her hands are in my hair and she presses my face to her breast, silently begging for more.
She rocks her hips against me, and even though it’s torture, even though she’s pushing me to skate on the edge of my control, I pull her closer. Wrapping my hands around her hips, I squeeze her ass and continue to torture her nipples—sucking, licking, biting.
Her moans turn to desperate, louder cries, and the rocking of her hips turns to grinding as she climbs toward her orgasm.
“Ride me, baby.” Pain laces my words. I’m fighting the need to slide inside her. “I want to hear you come.” I bring my hand to her nipple and pinch, and she spasms, at once arching toward my touch and away. She breaks, falling apart in my hands, her scream echoing off the snow-covered trees.
I kiss her shoulder, her neck, and her temple. She catches her breath against my chest, circling her hips every few seconds as she rides the receding tide of her orgasm back down. Then, her feet still locked behind my back, I wrap my arms around her, lift her out of the water, and carry her inside.
I lay her down in front of the fire, watching the light of the flame flicker in her eyes and make her skin glow. She parts her legs and watches me slide on a condom, and reaches for me as I lower myself to the floor. I take her hands above her head and hold them there as I slowly slide into her.
She moans and then cries out at the intrusion, but when I try to withdraw, she whispers, “Please,” and I’m lost.
Chapter Twelve
Sam
Elizabeth Thompson is my downfall. My temptation. My shouldn’t-want-it-but-can’t-stay-away.
I could watch her sleep for hours, memorizing the shape of her face, the flat of her stomach, the curve of her hipbone. I could lose track of time inhaling her scent. She’s beautiful, and when she sleeps, all that beauty is raw and unguarded.
Dappled morning light is coming through the leafless trees outside and into the windows. The heater hums as it cycles on. I should get out of bed and start a fire so it’s more comfortable in here when she wakes up, but I don’t want to leave her side.
Once upon a time, there was a guy who kept his heart locked away in a box. One night, when he was in a darker place than he’d ever been in his life, she showed him light. She made him laugh. She turned him on. She looked so fucking beautiful when she came that it was hard for the guy to imagine his heart needed protecting, that it could be pulverized.
That first night with Liz was a wave of sunshine in the middle of a dark and ugly time. It changed something about me, made me consider things I’d seen as fairytales before.
I’ve never been a romantic. That doesn’t mean I’m an asshole, but I’ve never been the kind of guy who believes in happily-ever-after. My parents are making it work, but at what cost? And are they really happy, or is the secret to a happy marriage really just lying to yourself every morning, telling yourself there’s nowhere you’d rather be?
Obviously, there was somewhere Dad would’ve rather been. Jacqueline wouldn’t have happened if Mom had been enough for him.
When I tell a woman that I’m a no-strings-attached kind of guy, I mean it, and I’ve never been tempted to be anything else—except for with Liz.
Last night, I confessed that I think about her, but that was a watered-down version of the truth. The truth is that Liz has a hold on something so much deeper than my thoughts, even deeper than my fantasies. I crave her. I have since she came to my house at Notre Dame. She’d gotten drunk and climbed onto the bar in the basement, and every guy in the room had been captivated. I’d wanted to punch them all—because she was only seventeen. And because she was mine.
That possessiveness where she’s concerned has never gone away, even if it doesn’t make any damn sense. But if my father is going to insist I see someone, why not her? Why not the woman who occupies so many of my thoughts and fantasies? It’s the perfect solution. I appease Dad and set Della’s mind at ease. And maybe by the time the election rolls around, I’ll finally be able to let her go.