Page 41 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I shrug. Because what’s the point of saying anything? Everything is stupid and annoying right now. Fuck.

“Can we talk after?” I mutter.

He wraps his arms around me, his lips brushing the top of my head. And I hate it.

But I also love it.

I hate that I love it.

I melt into him—just a little. I close my eyes and exhale deeply. Damn. His effect on me is strong.

“After what?” he asks.

I pull back to look up at his dumb ass. “After we fuck.”

And just like that, an annoying, Grinch-like grin spreads across his face, and I think, my God, men are so stupid. Testosterone must be real fucking strong if this is how they act when they think they’re about to get some.

I don’t wait for his goofy ass to answer. I grab his hand and pull him behind me to the bedroom.

When we get there, we strip. It’s boring, mechanical, clothes off, bodies bare, and I’m still annoyed.

But also…I want this.

Which is new for me.

Because I don’t want this in a transactional way, for getting what I want or for shutting a man up. I truly wanthim.

Ace has really managed to do the impossible—he’s made me actively, consistently want sex. I savor the actual, physical experience. The pleasure of it.

If that’s not proof he’s my soulmate, I don’t know what is.

He needs to hurry up and figure that out.

He slides into me with ease, stilling his body as his mouth finds mine. He’s a good kisser, too. Not too aggressive, but not limp and gross like the last guy I fucked. Ace kisses like he wants to heal me. He can’t see my carefully hidden wounds, but it doesn’t matter. He has the remedy.

His lips move with just enough pressure to make me part mine, just enough tease to get me to lean into him, just enough patience to let me adjust to the shift in my mood.

His tongue swirls languidly and deliberately, teasing and tempting, coaxing out my irritation like a skilled masseuse rubbing tension out of muscles.

And damn if it doesn’t work.

The frustration, the restlessness, the vague irritability? It all melts into the slow, deliberate slide of his body against mine. I love the way he moves. He treats my pleasure like it’s his mission.

My breath hitches as my hands grip his back, my nails sinking into his skin like an anchor.

Suddenly, I’m not mad. I’m not annoyed.

I’m happy.

“Goddamn,” he moans just before he flips us over like I weigh nothing at all.

Disoriented, I stare down at him as I adjust my position, getting myself comfortable in my rightful place—above him.

Not that I mind getting tossed around. Ace is strong. I know because I’ve followed him to the gym before. Planet Fitness, three times a week. He has no idea I’ve watched him grunt under the weight of those barbells, sweat dripping down his chest. He doesn’t know I masturbated to the thought of him using that same strength to throw me around just like this.

So yeah, I don’t mind.

“I should have asked you before,” he says. “Are you on birth control?”

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