Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(44)

“Seems pointless to get dressed, only to get naked again in a half hour.”

“Very well. What’re you in the mood for?”

“You’ll find out as soon as you get your clothes off.”

She stood, smirking, and made a little show of stripping down, flashing her ring at him between shed garments. Heat sparked in his eyes with every item that hit the floor, his lips parting, lids drooping. Such a glorious sight, this strong man looking foggy and half helpless from lust.

When she was completely naked, she joined him on the bed. He tugged the towel off and urged Laurel back until she was lying down and he was braced above her. His cock was ready, resting warm and stiff along her belly.

“Fiancée,” he whispered.

“Weird, huh?”

“A little. I like it.”

“Me too.”

“Can I take a rain check on the goring?” he asked. “I don’t feel like any f*cked-up shit tonight. I just want you and me.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Lemme get you ready. Tell me how.”

She blushed, from the sweetness of that order as much as her own reply. “Your mouth.”

She let her nails graze up his back and shoulders as he edged his way down her body, raked them through his damp hair when he brought his mouth close. Cool fingers parted her sex, warm breath caressing her folds, then his lips. She shut her eyes and searched for his scent behind the aroma of dinner, finding only his soap, not his skin. No matter. In minutes he’d be all around her, his sweat and the smell of his arousal, and the sounds of his excitement ringing in her ears.

Mine, and no one else’s, she thought, registering the subtle weight of the ring on her finger. In time the feel and the sight of it would grow as familiar as any other part of her body, and she welcomed that change as well. Like the presence of Flynn beside her as they slept, there was a comfort to be found when something once novel turns mundane. It was the taking-for-granted you had to be wary of. For decades to come, Laurel hoped to slip this ring off and polish it lovingly, feeling dazzled by it all over again, just as this man’s rare smile always did to her.

When his mouth had her slick and aching, she tugged at his shoulders, welcomed that sinful weight atop her. He sank deep, slowly, gaze moving between her face and the spot where their bodies met, eyes restless and needy.

“No cramps?” he asked.

“No.” A few times in the last couple weeks the IUD had triggered a sharp twinge—unwelcome reminders of the miscarriage—but nothing tonight. “Go as deep as you want.”

He did. Still slow, as though savoring each long slide in and out. As though he, like Laurel, was feeling all of this for the first time, somehow.

Before long came those scents she’d searched for, then the sounds of his mounting excitement. Her own rose in tandem, pleasure shifting from a curious hum to a growling hunger. She eyed the cock surging between her thighs, eyed the ring shining where she gripped his shoulder. She reached her other hand between them but he knocked it aside.

“Let me.”

She did. She marveled at his strength and physicality in the way he held himself up on one arm, amazed by those deft fingers and by how well he knew her body and what she needed. It was strange to think she’d ever had to teach him a thing about touching her; he could please her as easily as she might herself.

When she came it was his face she sought, locked in those eyes, his name riding the crest of a moan as the spasms swept through her. When she was spent, his hands splayed across the covers beside her ribs and his pumping hips began to pound. “Gimme your nails.”

She traced his arms, teasing, then gave what he was after—the mean dig of her fingers in his back as he chased his release. Whether he reveled in the possession of her touch or imagined it as something more akin to resistance, she didn’t care. All that mattered was the anguish of his pleasure, the set of his jaw and the power of this body, claiming hers.

He came in no time at all, transformed to a panting, wild-eyed beast, only to go tame and dozy as the pleasure ebbed. He dropped to his forearms and pressed his face to her throat, groans guttering to a happy sigh.

“Good?” she teased.

“Always.” He moved to her side and grabbed her a washcloth.

She tidied herself and passed it back. “We’ve been engaged for all of two hours and it’s already Missionary City. You going vanilla on me?”

“Never. Plus missionaries don’t eat *, do they?”

“If I meet one, I’ll ask him.”

He tossed the cloth aside and pulled her close, kissing her forehead, filling her up with the scent and sounds and heat of him. His voice was a low and lazy rumble. “If you’re worried marriage is going to mellow me, next time I’ll f*ck you in such disgusting ways you’ll be sprinting for the nearest confessional.”

“That’s so sweet. Thank you, my betrothed.”

He pulled back. “Lemme see that ring.”

She slipped her hand from where it was pinned between them, showing him.

“It’s so shiny.”

“I know. I could stare at it for an hour, but I better get busy finishing this dinner.”

“It’ll keep. Gimme ten more minutes.”

“You’re the boss.”

“In this bed, yes, I am. And I’m not done with you.”