Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(89)

“I was three when she died of ovarian cancer. The only memories I have of her are from the stories my father told me.”

“And your father died a couple of years ago, right?”

“Four months before our stint in Syria.” Looking back on it, that had been one hell of a year. He’d lost his father and one of his best friends, but he’d met the woman of his dreams.

“So now we’re both orphans.”

He sucked in a startled breath when the truth of it sank in. He’d never thought of himself as an orphan before. He always associated that word with a child. But, in the strictest definition, he was an orphan, parentless—but, unlike Olivia, far from alone in the world. And, oh, how he wanted to tell her what was in his heart. Pledge himself to her. Promise to be her family, to help her make a family if that’s what she wanted. But he held it all in and stuck with the plan…

*

6:57 p.m.…

“What are you…” she squeaked—damnit!—when Leo scooted her closer to the edge of the counter, stepped between her legs, and proceeded to kiss her cross-eyed. He came up for air—Two minutes later? Ten?—and her entire body was soft as butter, hot as Hades, and trembling like a leaf in the wind. Apparently, her brain was mush too, because talk about Simile City…

“You really know how to change the subject,” she purred, running her hands over the smooth skin of his shoulders where a soft sheen of sweat, caused by the steamy bathroom and their even steamier kiss, made his skin glisten.

Not that she was complaining about the right turn in topics. She was glad of it. He already had her heart and her body. Now he had her story too. Which felt intimate on a whole different level. And that sense of belonging she’d experienced earlier? It had grown to the relative size of the sun. Was just as warm and welcome. Which meant the cold she’d feel in an hour or so when they waved their farewells would sting all the more.

Keep it casual. Keep it fun.

Sh’yeaaah. I think we blew past that a long time ago.

“We can keep talkin’ if you want,” he murmured against her throat, licking his way beneath her jaw.

“Nope.” She palmed the back of his head, threading her fingers through his damp, shaggy hair. “I’m all talked out.”

“So what do you reckon we should do instead?” And just in case she thought to answer with How about a nice game of Parcheesi? he scooted her forward another couple of inches until his manhood pressed against her belly. He was hard as stone, hot enough to singe her flesh, and throbbing so insistently that an answering pulse of pleasure resonated through her. She was instantly achy. Instantly wet. She would say she was instantly wanton, but that was pretty much a foregone conclusion when Leo was in the same room with her.

“I’m open to suggestions,” she murmured when he nipped the edge of her jaw and lifted a big, warm hand to plump her breast. And even though a tiny part of her still thought it best to hold back—to keep from, in the middle-school vernacular, going all the way—the rest of her figured, What the hell? She was already sunk, lost, completely deep-sixed where he was concerned. So why shouldn’t she take everything he had to give, experience everything he wanted to share with her? Didn’t someone once say you regret the things you don’t do more than the things you do?

Or maybe I’m just rationalizing. Again. But holy shit! It was so hard to think when Leo was plucking at her breast, making her womb twang as if her nipple and her womanhood were somehow connected.

“I want to make love to you, Olivia,” he said, searching her eyes. Make love. Not f*ck or screw. Because even if all he was after was a quick lay so they could finally, finally bank the fire that burned between them, he respected her enough, liked her enough, to make it sound as though it was special.

Oh, this man… This wonderful, sexy, sweet man…

“I want that too,” she whispered and saw triumph blaze in his eyes the second before he reclaimed her lips. And then it was nothing but teeth and tongues, hungry lips and ragged breaths. They made love with their mouths. Their hands followed suit. He lovingly attended to her nipples, plucking and rubbing until she was mewling and achy. She ran her fingertips over his chest and belly, lower, so she could wrap her hand around him and pump.

“Olivia,” he gasped, ripping his lips away. “I need to—”

“Yes.” She nodded, her skin on fire, her blood running hot. Her center was a pulsing emptiness. She wanted him inside her, filling her up, stretching her to the limit. “Yes, Leo.” She angled him toward her entrance, watched as his swollen head parted her folds. He was so red he was nearly purple, his veins throbbing angrily. She was pink and swollen and so, so wet.

They both held their breath when he pushed inside her, just the tiniest bit, just so the flaring ring around his head remained visible. His shaft looked huge between her legs, and she was as hesitant to accommodate him as she was eager to feel him pushing inside her. She bit her lip, prepared herself for his first thrust. It never came.

Looking up, she discovered his eyes on her face. “What?”

“Condom,” he rasped, then wrenched open the drawer beside her, pulling out a box of Trojans.

“How did you—” she began, but he cut her off.

“I was lookin’ for bar soap. That frou-frou shower gel was slimy and smelled like”—he ripped a packet of foil open with his teeth, his cock still kissing her entrance—“black licorice. I hate black licorice.”