Beautiful Bastard(65)

“Greedy, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”



Upstairs in her room, between her sheets, and with her body coiled tight and sweet, sucking me in, everything else slipped away. Her scent and noises clouded my brain, made my thrusting erratic and hard. She was drenched—all of her: skin outside and flesh inside, slick and pulling me deeper. Her legs clamped around my hips and she flipped me over with a laugh, riding me with her back arched away and her head thrown back, fingers digging in my abdomen, anchoring herself in me. Her skin shone and I sat up underneath her, needing to feel the slide of her chest over mine as she slithered and slid. I pushed her back again, hovering over her once more this time with her legs on my shoulders and her mouth quivering as she struggled to find words.

Her nails dug into my back and I hissed, telling her “more” and “yes” and wanting her to mark me, to leave something that would still be there tomorrow.

She came once, and then again, and once more, and pulled at her hair, looking wild and untamed. I collapsed on her, incoherently stringing words together as I came, trying to tell her what we both already knew: that whatever happened outside of this room was irrelevant.





Sixteen


We slowly returned from orbit, and with limbs tangled in the sheets, talked for hours about our day, about the meeting with Gugliotti, about his dinner and my night out with friends. We talked about the broken desk, and that I only packed enough underwear for a week, so he couldn’t ruin any more.

We talked about everything except the havoc he was wreaking on my heart.

I ran a finger down his chest and he stilled it with his hand, bringing it to his lips and saying, “It’s nice to talk to you.”

I laughed, pushing his hair off his forehead. “You talk to me every day. And when I say talk, I mean yell. Shout. Slam doors. Pout—”

With his fingertips, he drew spirals over my bare stomach, distracting me. “You know what I mean.”

I did. I knew exactly what he meant, and I wanted to find a way to stretch this moment, right there, into eternity. “So tell me something.”

He raised his eyes to my face, smiling a little nervously. “What do you want to know?”

“Honestly? I think I want to know everything. But let’s start small. Give me the history of Bennett’s women.”

He ran a long finger across his eyebrow and repeated in a laugh, “Let’s start small. Riiiight.” He cleared his throat and then looked at me. “A few in high school, some in college, some in grad school. Some after grad school. And then, one long-term relationship when I lived in France.”

“Details?” I twisted a strand of his hair around my finger, hoping I wasn’t pushing him too much.

But to my surprise, he answered without hesitation. “Her name was Sylvie. She was an attorney at a small firm in Paris. We were together for three years and broke up a few months before I moved home.”

“Was that why you moved home?”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “No.”

“Did she break your heart?”

The smile turned into a full-on smirk directed at me. “No, Chloe.”

“Did you break hers?” Why was I even asking this? Did I want him to say—yes? I knew he was capable of breaking hearts. I was actually fairly certain he would break mine.

He bent to kiss me then, sucking on my lower lip for a few moments before whispering, “No. We just didn’t work anymore. My romantic life was entirely without drama. Until you.”

I laughed. “Happy to change up the pattern.”

I could feel his laugh in the vibrations along my skin as he kissed up my neck. “And oh, you do.” Long fingers made their way down my stomach, to my hips, and finally, between my legs. “Your turn.”

“To have an orgasm? Yes, please.”

He circled a lazy finger around my clit before sliding it inside me. He knew my body better than I did. When did that happen?

“No,” he murmured. “Your turn to spill your history.”

“No way can I think about anything when you’re doing that.”

With a kiss to my shoulder, he moved his hand back to my stomach, drawing circles there once again.

I pouted but he missed it, watching his fingers on me instead. “God, there have been so many men, where will I ever begin?”

“Chloe,” he warned.