Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(70)

I moan, feeling the way our bodies throb together. Skin on skin. My hands slide up to his shoulders as I push down the last couple of inches, taking his full length inside of me.

Cade sits up taller to press a kiss to the center of my chest, hands moving around my body to grip the globes of my ass. “Fuck, you feel like heaven. So hot and tight. Just for me.”

Just for me. My heart aches, and my arms wrap around his neck. I kiss the top of his head. This strong, stoic, honest, hardworking man—one whose hurt runs so deep that he’s lived several years questioning his worth. His value.

I hate it. I hate it for him. So, I rock my hips on him, hug him to my chest and say, “Just for you.” My nails graze over his shoulders and down his strong back. I bite on his ear again and nuzzle my cheek against his stubble. I love the feel of it rasping over my skin in perfect tandem with the rough pads of his fingers.

I lift and drop down, taking his full length in one go and hissing against his cheek at the slight burn. “Just for you,” I whisper again.

And I think I mean it.

Who the fuck knows what I’m doing? I’m positive that I don’t. Or I don’t most days. I go with the flow. I take my opportunities.

And God, an opportunity has never felt this right, so I don’t question it. I don’t overthink it. I give myself over to it.

To him.

I pull his head up to me and kiss him like it’s our last moment on earth. The energy in the small bedroom changes. What started off as rough and turned playful, has morphed into something more sensitive. But now we’re more frantic.

Our hands roam. He grips my ass, lifting me and pushing me back down. My legs shake and my head tips back. His beard scrapes across my chest. His lips work my nipples. My hands tug his hair.

We don’t talk.

But we don’t need to. Our bodies do the talking. Our kisses are wet, and messy, and perfectly imperfect.

“Cade,” I whimper, as wet slapping noises fill the room, followed by his animalistic grunts. My tits are bouncing. His eyes are glassy. “I think I’m going to . . .” I trail off, hot and breathless and totally out of control. Utterly consumed. But he knows what I’m trying to say. He knows what I need. What I want.

One hand splays over my stomach, and his fingers swipe over my bud. “Come for me, baby,” he pants.

“Yes,” I hiss. “Please don’t stop.”

“Never,” is his response. And it sets me off, the surety of it striking something in me that causes an eruption.

“Cade!” I scream his name this time. I don’t just call it. I let loose, and god, it feels incredible.

We’re a tangle of moans and taut muscles. His fingers keep moving, but his hand lands on my shoulder and clamps me onto his body as his cock surges, twitching and throbbing.

He spills himself inside me as he whispers my name against my lips, and there’s something intensely personal about it. I’m trying to catch my breath. I told him I’d say thank you, and I want to keep all my promises to him. He’s seen too many broken ones in his life.

He crushes me to him in the wake of our orgasms. It feels like he wraps his entire body around me. I nuzzle in closer, with him still inside me, damp chest against my cheek, steely arms clutching me around my back.

I open my lips to say the words he wanted.

But it’s him who drops his cheek against my head and rasps, “Thank you.”





24





Cade





I wake up hot and hard.

And smiling.

Willa’s hair is in my face, and her breath is making my neck feel damp and sweaty. She’s sprawled her long limbs over mine and pressed her body so close that all I’d have to do is shift her a few inches and she’d be lying right on top of me.

I’m not especially comfortable. And I fucking love it.

I always kind of chalked up my dry streak to aging, to being past it at thirty-eight. I know I’m not old but I feel old some days. Worn out and lacking the energy it takes to start a new relationship. Too tired to deal with the highs and the lows and the inevitable drama.

But Willa Grant invigorates me.

After having the best sex of my life, I dragged her to the kitchen and fed her. I made us pancakes. We talked. We laughed. But when she smudged a bit of syrup on her lips, I couldn’t resist licking it off. And that turned into me getting her on all fours, right on the hardwood floor in the kitchen. Which turned into a shower. Which turned into slamming her into the tile wall until we both came again.

She told me she couldn’t take anymore, but when I yanked her into my bed with me, I disappeared beneath the covers for one more taste. And it turns out she’s a big fat liar because she absolutely took more.

I should be exhausted right now, but apparently my dick didn’t get the memo. Because he’s up and ready to defile the twenty-five-year-old sprawled out in my bed. Again.

“Down, boy,” I murmur, reaching to adjust myself in my boxers. Willa stirs when I move, but my opposite arm comes around to the dimples at the small of her back, pressing her against me.

I don’t care if it’s physically uncomfortable. Having Willa close is comforting. It’s like having Luke under the same roof. I know everyone is safe.

I wish I could say I felt the same way about Luke’s mom. But I don’t. The only times Talia crosses my mind are when I’m feeling wounded or insecure. When that bitter taste crawls up my throat and I think about the years I wasted trying to make things work with her when deep down I didn’t want them to.