Page 96 of The Love Destroyers

“On second thought, I don’t think I’m done with you,” Seamus says once we get into his bedroom. He’s sitting on the bed, and I’m standing in front of him, but he pulls me between his legs, and the full body ache this inspires tells me I’m very far from done with him too.

He’s awakened my needs—a whole Pandora’s box of them. Being with him isdifferent. He’d probably make some aggravating comment, saying it’s because I’m used to older men, but that’s not why. It’s because the connection we have is special.

Which is terrifying.

I might have held strong if he hadn’t opened up to me earlier, telling me about his ex and what their relationship did to him. Sharing part of his story finally, the way he wouldn’t that first night outside the restaurant.

His willingness to be vulnerable was the undoing of me—or at least the undoing of my pants—and I used Leap Day as a dumb excuse to take what I wanted.

Pandora probably made excuses for herself too.

“You need to rest,” I insist.

“I will. After you sit on my face.”

“I’m not going to do that,” I protest, even as he leans in to suck my nipple, his hand traveling between my legs, probably finding me soaking. A sound of pure need escapes me as he strokes me. I remind myself that he’s good at this because he’s been with a lot of women. It may not be special for him in the way it is for me. But I don’t totally believe that.

Clearing my throat, I add, “You have a head injury.”

“And the only cure is your pussy.” It’s a ridiculous remark, probably designed to make me laugh, but it doesn’t. Because I’m hit with how much I’ve come to hunger for the sight of his face. The sound of his voice. His touch.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper.

“You’ll be nowhere near my rib, and the bruise is on my forehead. It’ll be fine. I want to taste you. I’ve wanted to taste you for months.”

“Lie down,” I say, my voice shaking.

He does, his eyes on me. Challenging me. Begging me for mercy. And what’s a woman to do? I lean down and kiss him softly, and then I climb up onto the bed beside him.

“Fuck yes, Em. On top of me. Give me what I need.”

I position myself next to the headboard and carefully lower down to him, feeling more naked now than when we were out in the living room. He grips both of my hips in his powerful hands and yanks me down to his mouth, shocking me. For someone who’s gone through so much this week, he’s still so strong. So physically present. An instant burst of pleasure jolts through me as he sweeps his tongue between my legs and then sucks in the most sensitive part of me. I’m so worked up, so turned on, that that’s nearly all it takes—a touch of his tongue and suction in exactly the right place. But he puts pressure on my hips, silently urging me to give him more of my weight, more of me. He moves his head slightly so he can speak and says, “Give it all to me, Emma. I want all of you.”

I give myself over to it, my hands clutching the headboard for dear life as he continues, because I feel myself losing control. It happens slowly at first and then in a great tide as he continues to pleasure me, his tongue finding all of the places inside of me no one else has ever bothered to look for, his hands essentially pinning me in place so he can do whatever he likes. And I’m shocked to realize I’m grinding against his face. He sucks on my sensitive spot one more time, and I’m shoved over the edge, my body writhing. Everything inside of me is focused on the present. On Seamus and me and this moment. On feeling so good that pleasure is the only thing I have space for.

It’s arevelation.

I move off of him as soon as I recover myself, worried that I’ve smothered him or jarred his injuries.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, breathing hard.

“No, baby,” he says as he makes a show of licking his lips. “I think you just saved me.”

“Do you want me to take care of you?” I ask, nodding toward his straining dick.

“Yes, Em,” he says, and I slide my hand over him, wanting to stroke him the way he did himself earlier today. It feels every bit as satisfying as I expected it to, even more so when I see his face as he comes, and know I’m the one who did that to him.

I expect him to fall asleep after that. That’s what men do, in my experience. They get what they want and then they move on. Normally, that’s whatIwould do. I’d segue to the next thing—thinking about a case, or grabbing a stiff drink to relax in front of the TV. But Seamus keeps his arm around me, and we talk for over an hour. I don’t know which of us falls to sleep first, only that I wake up with his arm around me, so comfortable and at peace that emotion immediately wells up in my throat and threatens to choke me.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. It can’t happen, can it?

It’s completely dark in the room, but I stare at the ceiling until my eyes become acclimated, my mind whirring, that ball of emotion in my throat growing as if it’s a snowball traveling downhill. Finally, I let myself look at him.

He’sbeautifulasleep—his lashes long against his cheeks, his features at rest, all traces of a smirk gone from his lips.

He’s beautiful awake, too, with the smirk.

He’s beautiful to me always.

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