To my surprise, he obeys, stripping quickly before lifting me up and dumping me on the bed. I roll to my back, and he climbs up my body, kissing and licking his way to my mouth. Then he straddles my waist and thrusts his tongue past my lips.
He’s hard again, the heavy weight of his cock jerking against my abs as he kisses me with deep, greedy tastes. Just when I think I can’t bear another teasing second, he moves back down my body, his hands and tongue worshiping every dip and curve.
“Come back,” I groan, pulling on his arm and squirming beneath his tickling lips. “I want to breathe in your sexiness.”
“Hold still.” He nips at my hipbone and wedges his shoulders between my legs, spreading me wide.
When his gaze lowers to my pussy, he sucks in a breath.
“No piercing?” His eyes narrow on mine.
“I removed it. I thought…” I got the piercing with Cole, and reminders of him hurt my heart.
“It’s okay.” He runs a hand up my chest and pinches a nipple. “There are plenty of other places to wear jewelry.”
“I love you.” I stroke my fingers through the soft texture of his blond hair.
“I love you, too.” He presses a kiss to my navel.
Then he returns to my pussy and uses his finger and tongue to send me into a writhing, moaning, mindless blob of liquid bones. One orgasm isn’t good enough. He spends another ten minutes pushing me over the edge again.
Smiling an intoxicating rare smile, he moves up my body and frames my face in his warm hands. I’m so wet there’s no need to work himself in.
A shift of his hips aligns us, and he imprisons me in the bright fervency of his eyes. Then he sinks inside, fitting our bodies together with agonizing slowness. Languidly, heavily, he strokes along my inner walls. We groan together, lips seeking and colliding. My nerve-endings stir and my chest tingles as our tongues dance and mate, licking and rubbing before going wild.
When he breaks the kiss, it’s to stare into my eyes. Then he kisses me again, going back and forth, looking at me, kissing me, like he can’t get close enough, deep enough. All the while, the roll of his hips maintains a tortuously slow pace.
He’s never made love to me like this before. I feel everything. Not just the physical connection, but the soul-deep attachment. He’s inside me, in my heart, exactly where he’s supposed to be.
I sense the moment he climbs toward the pinnacle. His rhythm accelerates, and he hooks an arm beneath my knee, shoving my leg up and out, stretching me wider.
“With me,” he gasps against my lips and thrusts more aggressively, urgently.
“I’m with you.” I buck against his driving hips, chasing the pleasure and trembling against the swelling surge. “Fuck me. Hard. Harder.”
He rides me like a damn devil, grinding, ramming in and out. It’s so good, so impossibly perfect. But it’s his unwavering eye contact that sends me over. I come with his name ripping from my throat, and he explodes with me, his gaze naked and feral as he grunts and thrusts to completion.
I sag, limp and breathless, against the mattress with the thrum of his heart as my only anchor. This isn’t a dream. It’s really happening.
Despite his orgasm, he continues move inside me. Then he takes my mouth, gifting me with a kiss as raw and satisfying as the sex.
“I’m not finished with you.” He bites at my lips.
“Promise?” I kiss him back.
“I promise those will be the last words you hear before you fall asleep.”
“Every night?”
“For the rest of my life.”
“I can’t believe he’s taking you to the French Riviera for your honeymoon.” My sister releases a dreamy sigh and props an elbow on the table in her kitchen.
“I can’t believe he gave up control of his casino operations to do philanthropy work.” My chest swells for the thousandth time in three weeks.
Three weeks of utter bliss in Trace’s bed, on his stage, and in his arms. He nourishes me physically and soulfully. All forms of happiness are insubstantial beside him.
“He what?” Bree’s jaw drops, her voice shrilling against my ears.
“Shh.” I shoot her a glare.
We both turn our heads toward the doorway and stare at the far corner of the living room. My five-year-old niece, Angel, perches on a tiny chair at a kid’s activity table. Beside her, Trace sits on the floor with his legs stretched out beneath the table. He’s such a big man it looks like a plastic tray on his lap.
With their backs to the kitchen, their heads bow in concentration as they color with crayons. They connect on some enigmatic level I don’t understand. It’s irresistibly charming.