Love in Lingerie(54)

It’s the most beautiful moment of my life.

Her eyes close, and she breathes out my name, her body shuddering around mine, and I pull her to my chest, holding her in place as my hips hammer upward—short, quick strokes that slap my pelvis against her clit and bury my cock into her heat, her inner walls tightening, then flexing, and when she comes, I can feel it rip through her entire body, her cry of my name more animal than human. She screams the word yes, first quick and shrill, then louder and longer, my movements not slowing, not easing, my control shredding as she gives me everything I want.

When I come, it feels as if it lasts a minute, and if she ever stopped coming, I couldn’t tell. I give one last, deep thrust and then hold her against me, my cock twitching as the aftershocks tremble through me.

I close my eyes, and I can’t stop the goofy smile from stretching over my face. I don’t know if she meant the proposal acceptance, but I’ve never been happier in my life.

In this one moment, everything is perfect.





Her

I think he’s dead. He’s stretched out, stark ass naked, his eyes closed, a limp smile on that gorgeous face. His cock is lying across his stomach, and if sucking it will bring him back to life, I’ll be the first volunteer. I smile at the thought and roll off him, pushing to my feet and making my way to the windows, my limbs loose and lazy, my knees almost buckling as I reach up and grip the top of the window.

“I’ll do that,” he mumbles, his head moving, one eye opening to watch me. I bend over and slide the first one closed, and the corner of his mouth lifts up. “Never mind,” he muses. “You do it much better. Especially naked like that.”

“Shut up.” I close the other two and return to him, stepping over his chest and stopping, extending my hand. “Come on. We both need showers.”

“You’re evil,” he groans, his eyes between my legs. “I thought you looked good in my lingerie but fuck.” He drawls out the last word, his eyes shameless in their perusal. “I’d rather you work naked.”

“That won’t work.” I wave my hand impatiently in front of him. “My fiancé is a jealous bastard. He doesn’t like it when other men look at me.”

It’s as if I’ve given him a gift. His eyes lift to my face, and his lips twitch into a new smile, a shy one. “I think he likes it when they look. He just doesn’t like it when they touch.” He finally takes my hand, his legs coming up underneath him, and I lift my chin to look up into his face when he stands.

“Is that so?” I say.

“I wouldn’t blame any man for ever looking at you, Kate,” he says softly. “You’re the most beautiful woman any of us have ever seen.”

“You’re so full of shit.” I smile.

His hands come up, and he holds my face, his eyes deepening as he looks into mine. “Tell me more about your fiancé.”

“Hmm.” I muse. “He’s very smart. Almost annoyingly so. And he knows it, which makes it even worse. And he’s cocky. But in that confident, sexy way that makes you want him to rip off your clothes as soon as you meet him. But he’s also unbelievably sweet.” He presses his lips to mine, just a gentle pull of love, and then a release, his eyebrows raising for more. “And generous,” I add, earning a second kiss. “And…” I scrunch my brow, as if I am thinking hard for another compliment. And kind. And funny, and loving, and vulnerable, and witty, and intoxicating, and every positive word that Webster ever created.

“Addictive?” he supplies.

I twist my lips. “Kind of.” I venture. “I’m not sure yet. It’s a fairly new engagement.”

“Do you think it will stick?” His hands tighten, and he draws me closer.

I look up into his eyes. “I do. I want it to.”

“It will.” He lowers his mouth, and this kiss—it is more of a promise, the sort that wipes away all doubt and tells me a thousand times over, with each brush of his lips, that he means this. That we will stick, that all of this will last.

He lifts his mouth from mine. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”





I pull the blanket back and crawl under the sheets, the act almost reverent in its execution. I’ve never been in his bed with him, never slid, bare skin to bare skin, against his body. He had insisted on my sleepwear—a sheer slip from last season, and he wraps a hand around me, pulling me across the king bed and against him, my bottom snug to the bend of his body, his hand closing possessively over one breast. I relax against the pillow, my eyes picking up all of the details before me. The closed curtains, their edges framed in soft moonlight. The glow from the bathroom’s nightlight giving subtle definition to the art, the dark blue walls, the elephant lamp on the bedside table. His breath is warm against my neck, and he squeezes me gently, just a test, as if to see if I am still here. I cup my hand over his and lower my mouth to his fingers, one kiss pressed against the digits.

In the morning, maybe all this will be gone. In the morning, we both might regret everything.

I stay awake as long as I can, enjoy as much as I can, the feel of him, the sounds of him sleeping. In the quiet room, I whisper my love for him.





chapter 21

Him