Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(46)

And I don’t care.

I’m the bug. I’m the bug drawn to the bug zapper light, and I don’t care. Because her lips taste like honey and they’re pillowy soft and pliable beneath mine, and I will never get enough of the sound of a woman’s sigh as she gives in to kissing me back, and until this exact moment, I didn’t realize how much I’ve been missing a woman’s touch.

Especially since this one comes with actual, honest to god blood flow to my dick.

Did I say blood flow?

I meant the dam burst and I’m harder than a baseball bat for the first time in what feels like seven long losing seasons.

She pushes up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck. I reach behind her and shut the water off, turn us, and trip over another pile of books.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps when I break the kiss, and the next thing I know, we’re all over each other.

Is there anything hotter than being wanted by a woman?

I don’t think so.

She’s pressing her belly into Mr. Woody. I’m thrusting my tongue down her throat. She scrapes her fingernails down my back, but I’m wearing a shirt, which seems stupid when there’s a woman wanting to leave marks, so I pull back long enough to rip the damn thing over my head, shove three more piles of books off the countertop, and hoist her up there before diving back into ravaging her mouth.

I’m possessed.

Either that, or Henri’s secretly made of some kind of potent aphrodisiac. She’s a genetic experiment in walking temptation.

That’s the only rational explanation for this desperate need to know how her hair feels between my fingers and why my palms itch to cradle her breasts and how if I don’t bury my cock inside her in the next five minutes, all of my internal organs will implode, sucking me inside myself until I’m the black hole formerly known as Luca Rossi.

Jesus on a breadstick, what is she doing to me?

And why don’t I care?

“Is this—how—you teach?” she gasps between kisses.

“Yes,” I grunt back. I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, but I’ll tell her anything she wants to hear so long as she keeps her legs wrapped around my waist.

Her fingers trail down my bare chest, and she moans into my mouth.

She moans harder when I fumble my hands under her shirt, and when I find those two glorious mounds tipped with pebbled nipples, she pumps her hips harder against mine.

God bless the woman for not wearing a bra.

“More, Luca.”

“Fuck, you’re sexy.”

Is there anything wrong with coming home to a woman who’ll hump me on the kitchen counter?

No.

No, there’s not.

This time, she’s the one who pulls away to tear her own shirt off, and hello, beautiful Henri breasts.

I’m drooling.

I’m drooling over the sight of her rosy nipples and the round plumpness of her flesh, and I’m silently naming the left one Henri and the right one Etta, and I definitely need to make sure both of these ladies feel equally loved.

I hit a home run this afternoon.

I deserve to score when I walk back into my castle.

My run-down castle with the queen who shines so bright that she makes it feel like Buckingham fucking Palace.

Fuckingham Palace.

Yeah. That’s what I’m renaming my home.

Also, I have never tasted better breasts in my life.

It’s like she rubbed them with bacon grease, except better, and also not greasy.

Maybe this is why her last name is Bacon.

Jesus. Thinking about bacon grease shouldn’t be a turn-on, but with every lick of her nipples, I’m getting harder and harder, and I don’t know that my dick’s going to survive me giving Etta the same level of attention that Henri’s currently getting.

And I mean Henri the boob, not Henri the woman.

I switch to Etta before I come in my pants and blow the damn things right off my legs.

Henri the woman has my hair fisted in her hands and she’s chanting yes, oh god, more, Luca, yes yes YES and her legs are rubbing my sides because apparently I’m damn good at sucking on breasts and I’m driving her wild, and swear to sweet holy fuck, this is better than bringing an entire stadium to their feet.

Because an entire stadium doesn’t smell the way Henri’s pussy smells.

“I’m going to eat you,” I order her.

Yeah. Order. I’m ordering her to let me eat her like I’m a caveman, and I’d take it back, except she’s suddenly twisting on the counter and pushing her killer vampire unicorn pajama shorts down, one hip at a time, until she’s spreading her legs and pushing me down between them.

And there’s Henri’s sweet honeypot, and it is all mine.

I’ll probably need the best therapist in the world to explain this all to me and help me work through it tomorrow, but right now, all I care about is licking her clean and exploring that sweet little nub with my tongue and teeth and making her moan.

She was going to feed me corn.

Corn.

Not today, Henri. Not when I can snack on your pussy instead.

I’m going in for the big finish—her hips are thrusting against my mouth and her pants and moans are getting higher pitched, and I know she’s close.

Hell, I’m close.

I thought snacking on her breasts would do it for me?