Ripped (Real, #5)(86)
He eases his finger inside me, and whatever I was going to reply comes out as a moan. I part my thighs wider. “Oh, yes, Mackenna, please me. Please me like only you can.”
His lips curl against my temple, and he presses into me again. “Talk dirty to me,” he whispers. “Tell me what you’re thinking. What you want.”
“I’m thinking your cock is much thicker. And longer. And . . . better . . . than your finger. Though your finger is nice . . .”
“Nice?” He rubs it deeper inside me.
“Oh. Yes. Yes, like that . . . please.”
His lips curl higher against my temple. He inserts a second finger inside me, and it feels just right—just right—as he nibbles my lower lip. “Do you like it when I do that?”
“I do,” I gasp.
He groans. “Pandora?”
“Yeah?”
“I f*cking love you, Pink.” He watches my reaction with a sexy smile, then he brings that sexy mouth to mine. A mere brush sets me off. And then he covers my mouth with his as I feel it. Fireworks. Exploding in my body as his finger eases into me again and his tongue penetrates my mouth. Yes, please. So hungry.
He knows I’m coming, because he parts my lips with gentle pressure and sinuously slips his tongue inside, still rubbing his finger inside me.
I twist my head and whimper. “Ahh, Kenna . . . Kenna!”
His mouth smothers my sounds and he slides two fingers, three, into me, until I feel impaled, possessed, pinned, taken. His mouth is just as fierce over mine. I feel like he is gorging on my soul, and I want him to gorge it even more.
When the contractions cease, I lie panting on the bed. The moonlight illuminates me head to toe, nothing covering me anymore. I say nothing as I look at him, all glorious and manly; I only chew on my lower lip, anxious to be kissed again as his eyes rove up and down my body.
“What are you waiting for?” I gasp.
“What’s the rush?” He smirks. “We have all night.” His hand starts at my ankle, and then he drags it with painstaking slowness and expert precision up the side of my body, up my hips, curving up my waist, my rib cage, to cover one puckered breast.
“You’re driving me crazy,” I cry out.
He ignores my cry, still looking at me with a glint that tells me he likes driving me out of my mind. He lowers his face and kisses my nipple. Draws it into his mouth. I cry out softly and arch upward, crippled with pleasure.
“Oh, God, please . . . again.” I hook my legs at the small of his back, twine my arms around his neck, and catch my breath.
He pulls back, then pushes inside. I’m trembling the second he’s seated inside me, and he grabs my hair in his fist and starts pumping like mad.
“You’re so tight.”
“Ooooh!”
Cursing, he holds me down and starts thrusting, and I gasp at the intensity of our lovemaking, our breaths, our gasps, his growls, “Say it, gorgeous girl. Say it to me again.” My sex feels greedy and sensitive as he drags in and out, my muscles clenching around him once again. Another orgasm is building. I bite my lip and toss my head, and when he pinches my nipples, I explode, feeling him tense and come so powerfully. I have never, ever seen him come like this before.
“I love you,” I breathe, panting.
He groans out, “Love you too.”
When we nearly pass out on the bed, I keep blinking and staring at the ceiling.
Fuck. I can’t believe I said that. So easily it came this time. No more fears. No more insecurities. I am in love and I’m owning it like a badass!
“I love you,” I repeat, rolling to my elbow and kissing his jaw. “I’m in love with you, dick-douche-jerk-f*cking-face, I LOVE YOU!” I cry, and start laughing when he rolls over to squish me and yells, “Finally, the woman makes sense!”
I sigh and hug him to me. “Kenna . . . what are we going to do?”
He’s holding me as I lie, luxuriating in bed, when he lifts my hand up to his mouth and he kisses the second most precious thing he’s ever given me in my life. His mother’s ring.
“We’re getting married.”
TWENTY-THREE
ENDS AND BEGINNINGS
Mackenna
Guess there’s something bittersweet about a beginning, because it almost always requires an end. My beginning right now requires I end my stint with Crack Bikini.
Six years, almost.
Enough to learn, live, sing my f*cking heart out. Hell, enough to realize I don’t want to die a rockstar.
I want to die a family man . . . who used to sing.
I told Lionel I needed out way back. Told him I wanted to make music my own way. At my own pace. In my own time. I told him I want to have friends at the bar where I nightly perform, build some roots—somewhere.
No. Not somewhere.
I want to build some roots in Seattle with my girl.
She’s my beginning, the beginning I’ve craved for six years—one I never knew I could have until I saw her again. But saying goodbye to Crack Bikini isn’t without some pain.
The lyrics I’m recording aren’t without some pain.
Pandora’s tormented. She keeps asking if I’m sure I want to leave the band. She says, “You don’t have to leave it for me.”
“No, Pink, it’s for me,” I promise her.