Page 69 of Possession

Almost as long as had passed before I’d had her.

She cried out and squeezed around me, her walls fluttering up and down my length. I would’ve encouraged her with the dirty words that sprang up so often when I was balls-deep inside her, but I couldn’t find my voice. Could do nothing but hold on while she reared up and clamped her arms around my neck, bringing us forehead to forehead.

Trapped in her fever-bright blue gaze, I surged forward one last time. And clasped her soft, giving breasts that much harder while I exploded deep within her pussy.

Even before it was over, she fumbled to take my lips with her own. Our kiss was rough, artless. Sloppy. So goddamn desperate, still.

Sex couldn’t sate what we’d gone way beyond.

She drew back enough to trace shaky fingers over my damp, well-used mouth. “Though I’m a feminist, if you wanted to carry me to bed just now, I might not say no.”

Recognizing the concession for what it was, I gave her back one of my own.

“After that, Ms. Copeland, you just might have to carry me.”

Chapter 18

Grace

Istared at the ceiling. My body was still crackling in response to his touch.

Blake.

My…something.

Lover seemed too tame a word, even if the L-word twined around it in distracting shades of intense reds and hues of blue. That’s what he was. Passionate rage and cool blue.

I was somewhere in the middle.

An amalgam of us both. A steadier version for sure, but that seemed almost boring compared to Blake on either end of the spectrum.

Tonight had been red.

Cool hadn’t even been on the surface of us. I wasn’t sure what to think, to be truthful.

I almost laughed out loud.Truth.

Such a stingy word used in our relationship. My lies, his lies, our lies—and somewhere in there was a truth buried under lines of code—both in computer language and my grandmother’s flowery, dramatic prose—add in worry, and an endless need for Blake to control something…

Well, then you had me, the limp noodle who’d barely survived the aftermath.

And yet I couldn’t turn my brain off.

He could.

As focused as he could be about work, about making me insane both in and out of a bed—when we actually used a bed, that is—dear God, what he could do with his tongue. My nipples beaded up and my breath hitched in muscle memory.

God, I wished I could turn things off like he did.

I turned my face to him in the dark. His chest rose and fell in that deep sleep he could magically summon.

Usually, he turned away from me in the dark. As if he still needed to block me from his world even when he was unconscious. But not tonight.

Tonight, he faced me, and his fingers had crossed our tentative thresholds to slip under my pillow. One more piece of him he’d finally shared with me.

Part of me wanted to slip under the cool sateen fabric and curl my fingers around his. Maybe then I could soak up some of his restful mojo and follow him into blissful oblivion.

But my too busy brain just wouldn’t let things go.

---