If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(77)

Wrapping my arm around his back, I wrench him closer, until our chests touch. Our mouths fuse into deep, slow kisses. We move lazily at first, Sebastian with his hand tangled in my hair, his mouth open with mine; me with my hands skating over the firm muscles of his back, up to the silken thickness of his hair falling into his face.

“Sebastian.” I call his name quietly as pleasure weaves through me, builds and coils. I drink in his sounds, his broken, aching groans, each sharp, jagged breath.

“Ziggy,” he whispers.

“Best. Kissing. Ever.”

He smiles against our kiss. “Best kissing ever.”

I wrap my leg around his and slide it down his calf, pressing my hips closer. His forehead drops to mine, and a moan leaks out of him, low and broken. Its raw, needy echo, the perfect nudge of hips, tugs that white-hot thread of pleasure right through me until it snaps and unravels into a thousand fine sparkling fibers glowing through me. Release hits me, sharp, shaking, sweet relief that pounds low in my belly, between my thighs, in the tips of my breasts, up my throat to the edges of my ears where I feel his breath, harsh and hot.

I arch into Sebastian again as another wave rolls through me and drink in his rough groan, his hand tightening its grip in my hair, as he stills his body, heavy over mine. I feel every inch of him, hard and insistent in his jeans, and tell myself as soon as I’m composed enough from this earth-shattering orgasm to remember what my hands are and how they work, I’m going to make this man fall blissfully apart.

Slowly, he pulls back, peering down at me, smoothing back fine and now sweaty strands of my hair. His knuckles graze my hot cheek, flushed from coming.

I watch him, dazed, all noodle limbs and needy touches. Throwing my arms around his neck, I smile as he leans in and kisses me, sweet and soft.

“This,” I whisper, “just might have ruined me for all future bookstore visits.”

Sebastian’s eyes crinkle. His torso starts to shake. And then he lets out the loudest, loveliest laugh I have ever heard.





24





SEBASTIAN





Playlist: “I Wish I Was,” The Avett Brothers





My laugh becomes a gasp when Ziggy pushes me onto my back and slides her leg across my stomach, right over my cock that’s so damn hard, I don’t know how it hasn’t busted the zipper in my jeans.

“Ziggy.” I set a hand on her thigh, stopping her.

She freezes, propped on her elbow, peering down at me. “What is it?”

Slowly, I ease upright, and she sits up with me. Bringing a hand to her face, I trace my fingers across her freckles, then sink them into her gloriously disheveled braid. “I’m okay.”

She peers down at my lap, where I am, by all evidence, very not okay. “What?”

“I…” Blowing out a breath, I stroke her flushed pink cheek with my knuckles again, then press a gentle kiss right to one of my favorite freckles, nestled in her dimple. “I’m okay.”

Her head tips in that way she has, as she pulls back, not harshly, just curious, her eyes searching mine. “But you were really good to me—”

“Not good enough.”

“Sebastian.” She arches an eyebrow. “I’m the one who just orgasmed so intensely, I saw outer space. I get to tell you if it wasn’t good enough, and I’m telling you it was.”

“I’m glad.” I lean in and press a soft, slow kiss to her cheek, breathing her in. “Then it was good enough for me, too. That’s all I need.”

She scowls as I spring up and stand, though not as gracefully as I’d like, given the pounding pulse in my cock. She thinks she saw outer space? I was about two hip nudges away from going off like a rocket. Calling to mind the last time I ate a calzone and literally thought I was dying, I was in so much pain, I find myself able to stand fully upright now, and offer her my hand.

Ziggy takes it, a little hesitant at first, before she lets me yank her upright. She lands with a bounce, tugging down her adorable dark-green T-shirt that rode halfway up her torso during our little session on the floor. When she settles it back down on the waistline of the jean shorts I cut for her, I see it again, the clever seventies-throwback smiley face doctored up with Shakespeare’s iconic hairdo and goatee. Beneath Smiley Shakespeare it says, “Have a nice play.”

She stares at me for a second, our hands lingering together, fingers tangled. Her brow is furrowed, her gaze searching me, like an X-ray, running diagnostics.

I smile, because I can’t help it. I used to be terrified of that stare. Now I think I just might crave it. Because it means she’s trying to understand me. It means Ziggy might not like what I’m doing or get it, but she’s willing to stay with me anyway.

Slowly, she turns toward the books scattered across the floor and bends. As she reaches for the first book, baring her ass in all its glory inside those jean shorts, she lets out a satisfied sound, low and smoky in her throat.

I crouch and start to pick up books, too, perhaps staring at her butt so much, I drop a few books that I try to pick up. I come very, very close to begging her to tear off those shorts, shove me onto my back, and sit on my face, but somehow I stay strong, cleaning up our mess beside her.

“Well,” Ziggy sighs. She turns, bearing a towering stack in her arms. “Guess it’s time to browse some books.”