Hanging On (Jessica Brodie Diaries #2)(8)

His hand brushed my trimmed triangle of public hair as his mouth bent to lightly suck my neck. Suddenly he stilled. “Oops.” He smiled, eyes trained on my neck. “I gave you a hickey last night.”

I felt my neck, as if I could feel it, and laughed. “What are we, sixteen?”

“I know, right? And it too hot for turtlenecks.”

“Make-up.”

“Sorry.” He kissed the offending spot, as if spit would wash it away. Since his fingers dipped lower, exploring, I didn’t mind in the least.

“Shall we get up?” he asked lazily, his lips trailing down my neck and jumping to a nipple.

I spread my legs instead of answering. It was all the invitation he needed. His large body moved over me gracefully, thrusting to the hilt, filling me in a whoosh, which was exactly what my breath did.

His pace was hard and quick, probably ready upon waking. I kissed him hard, racing to the finish line, swinging my h*ps upward and squeezing down on his shaft, coating him in my wetness as a sparkler of pleasure twirled through my groin.

“Can’t-last-long,” he panted, the room full of rhythmic wet smacks.

“I’m gonna—“ And then I did, eyes rolling back in my head, my whole body going taught.

He filled me a second later, shuttering and going limp.

“Hmm, that was nice,” he said in a sedated voice before kissing me again and rolling off.

I chuckled, not bothering to move. “It was nice, was it? Thank you for the admiring accolades. Though I can’t imagine it was much different from your usual Saturday morning.”

“Funny,” he said dryly. “And completely wrong, thank you very much.”

I scoffed, but was inwardly delighted. I had a fear that in the light of day, and after getting in my pants, the novelty would wear off. I said as much after we were up and dressed, me in my clothes from the day before, him in a trendy but casual sweater and jeans.

He abruptly stopped putting on his shoes and looked at me with an angry glare.

“Did you really think that?” he demanded.

I hesitated with the mood shift. “Yes. Well, worried about it, more like.”

He stood up and came to stand right in front of me. Just now, when he was wound like a spring and standing over me, I forgot how tall and muscular he really was. He was radiating power, showering me with it. It turned me on something fierce, though I doubt that was his intention.

“Jessica. It took me months, months, of pining for you like a lovesick Shakespearian character before I got up the courage to say something. I am not sure how much experience you've had with men, but men don’t just talk about feelings and personal shit unless it is dire, or the trust is solid.”

It was hard to listen with the pressure in my ears and sodden panties, but I was trying.

“If I didn’t like you, I mean really like you, so much so that I couldn’t just move on to make life easier on myself, I wouldn’t have bared my soul to you yesterday. That took a lot of guts. Guts that I normally don’t possess. When you said you were leaving I was so afraid to lose you I could barely think.

“Don’t you ever think all of that was to just get in your pants. You better wipe those thoughts from your head right quick, and focus on the larger problem, which is fitting you into my world so you aren’t ridiculed at social functions. It will be a constant struggle for a while. We are in this together, Jessica.” He was breathing deeply, his face red with passion, his hands balled into fists.

I’m not sure who started it, but suddenly we were ripping the clothes off each other right where we stood. We didn’t bother moving across the room to the bed. He got my pants off, I his, and he pushed me up against the dresser, followed by a rough insertion.

I clawed and bit and pulled his hair as we rocked and thrust into each other. Pictures and things were flying off the dresser but neither of us cared. The desperation to love and be loved spurred my need until it flowered and blossomed into something beyond words. I reached a cl**ax higher and harder than I ever had in my life. And after last night, that was saying something.

We came down from our fervor and melted onto the floor. He kissed me tenderly and cradled my head on his shoulder.

“You showed me!” I said jokingly.

I could hear his deep chuckle through his chest. “Was I too rough? I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“Yes, but in a good way. Shakespeare would be hard pressed to describe how good that was.”

He chuckled again. “Shower first? Or breakfast?”

“I want to shower at home, actually. I am fussy about my hair and body products. And I really should wash my hair—it's manky.”

“Manky?”

“Nasty, gross. Irish word. I got it from my friend Claire.” I needed to email the girls, speaking off.

“We’ll do breakfast first, then.”

We walked into the hospital showered, elated and hand-in-hand. Part of me was so happy I couldn’t think straight. I wanted nothing else than to tuck myself into William’s body and laze the day away. If not that, then just touch him. Constantly.

The other part of me still dreaded hospitals. My smile was half grimace as the sterilized smell assaulted me.

As I entered Gladis’s room, my land lady that had broken her hip about a week ago, her face lit up. Upon seeing William close behind, a quick speculative look flashed before she quickly covered it up with southern hospitality.