If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(103)

Ziggy lifts up her hips, grips my cock hard at the base, making me pant roughly as she eases me inside where she’s hot and wet and so damn tight, it makes my molars clack together. “Fuck me,” I groan.

“Language.” She swats my ass, then sinks all the way down, swift and efficient. It’s a near-death experience.

“Oh, fucking hell. Jesus Christ, Ziggy.”

“Naughty, naughty.” She smiles against our kiss, then kisses her way across my jaw as she rolls her hips, fast and deep, so damn well, that after only a few minutes, my knees draw up and I grip her hips, desperate with the need to fuck up into her.

“Nuh-uh.” She catches my hands and sets them over my head again, leaning over me.

“Ziggy,” I groan, arching my hips. “I gotta come.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

She grins. “Not yet, Sebastian.”

I moan as she slides her hand down my throat again and presses the way I showed her I like. “Ziggy, I can’t—”

She stops, holding her hips still.

I pant, my hips jumping as she leans and softly bites her way across my chest tattoos, over my nipples.

“I said not yet, Sebastian.”

A cracked groan leaves me, as I pulse inside her, so close to coming, so desperate for it. I love how good she is at making me wait, and I’m also about to goddamn lose it. “I’m gonna get you back so bad after this.”

She grins against my skin, then gently rolls her hips, a testing tease that sets me off.

I gasp, scrambling against the floor, pushing against her hand that still holds my wrist. She lets go and is entirely braced for what comes. Flipping her onto her back, I sink into her, hard, fast, frantic punches of my hips.

Ziggy slaps her hands onto my ass, pulling me tight into her before she rakes her fingers up my back into my hair and tugs sharply. Her body clenches around mine, rhythmic, tight squeezes as she throws her head back. I bury my face in her neck and shout her name as I rut into her and come, so long, I lose my vision for a few seconds, dark, sparkly stars that fade as I blink dazedly, peering down at her.

Ziggy’s chest heaves, her hair wild and tangled across the blankets as she shakes her head, stunned. “That…” she says. “Was… Words. I’ve got them. Just need a minute.”

“And she says she’s the Scrabble champion.” I’m poked in the side. I grab her hand and pin it back, then settle my weight over her, kissing her sweet and slow. “Tomorrow, you’re getting your ass whooped at Scrabble, Sigrid.”

She rolls her eyes. “Dream on, Sebastian. Dream on. And besides, it’s today.” She points, floppy armed to the clock over the oven. Her family will be here by ten sharp. Ziggy warned me if Elin Bergman says she’ll be somewhere at that time, she is there at that time, so there will be no cushion.

I groan, dropping my head to her neck again. “Okay. Maybe we should finally sleep a little bit.”

“Ya think?”

I yawn loudly, then curl myself around her, burying my face in her neck. I think I’ll sleep like this. Ziggy is supremely cozy. “Set an alarm?” I ask through another yawn.

Ziggy’s fingers comb through my hair. “I would, except I’ve got two hundred pounds of big, sweaty, sexed-up Sebastian draped over me.”

I smile. “That’s me.”

She snorts. “It’ll be fine. I never sleep late. We’ll wake up in plenty of time.”





We do not wake up in plenty of time. At all.

The sound of feet lumbering up to the porch, voices echoing as a key slides into a lock, wrenches us awake. Ziggy’s eyes snap open at the same time as mine. For a moment, we share a mutual look of sheer, unadulterated panic. But even as we haul our bare asses up the stairs, sprinting for cover, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

There’s no one I’d rather run headlong with into the next wild, uncertain moment of life than the woman who holds my hand.





33





ZIGGY





Playlist: “It’s a Wonderful World,” Peggy Lee





“Ziggy Stardust.” Dad wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close, and presses a kiss to my temple.

“Hey, Daddy.” I set a hand on his back and smile up at him. “Get enough to eat?”

He gives me a look. “You know I did. Your mother has a serious impulse to overcook, and I simply can’t let it go to waste.”

“There are a lot of mouths to feed,” I point out. My gaze travels the back deck of the A-frame as sunset spills across it, in its delicious, homey glow. The Bergman brood, and even sweet Charlie, who’s finally come around to Sebastian, fill it to the brim in chairs, at the outdoor table, eating, talking, laughing. Some of us overflow into the yard too, kicking a soccer ball around, goofing off with bocce balls.

Dad smiles, squeezing my shoulder once more, then letting go. Setting his hands in his pockets, he shifts his weight off his amputated leg and its prosthesis. I know better by now than to ask if he wants to sit. He’ll sit if he needs to, and he won’t if he doesn’t.

“So, my wily youngest daughter—”

“I’m wily?” I raise my eyebrows. “You meddlesome people are the ones who set us up for our A-frame…one-on-one.”