Page 33 of Stealing It
“I’m not even going to dignify that inappropriateness with a response, Mixx.”
I find myself checking him out even as I take steps backward toward his bedroom where my clothing is somewhere on the floor. He knows what he does to me. It’s evident in the way he uses his muscles to sit up. An offense of abs I’ll call it. My throat clogs and I take another step, quicker this time. “Careful, Magnolia. You’re liable to trip and fall directly on my cock. Wouldn’t want that when you have so much to do today. Would we?”
I turn around then, and bolt for his bedroom and close the door against his low, manly chuckling. I’m losing my mind. It’s the only explanation. Even as my subconscious feeds me another, more logical reason I’m acting like a completely feral woman. Never, not once in the years I was married to Paul did I feel this draw—crave to be connected to a man like this. Last night Aidan bared his soul, gave me horrifying details that provided answers about his personality. And his life choices. The mothering instinct in me wants to help him reconnect with his family, but logic dictates his family doesn’t deserve to glimpse his face ever again. I’d also like to keep him as my own for the rest of time. Let’s not forget that selfish fact.
I tap my pointer finger on the door repeatedly. “Maybe just a quickie,” I whisper to myself. “I am already wet,” I reason like it’s an everyday problem I’m trying to solve, instead of fighting against my own will. What would it hurt to be five minutes more? Slowly, I unlock the door and push it open, all resolve lost somewhere. Aidan is standing there, his massive naked frame propped against the wall, a sardonic grin plastered on his face. It’s disconcerting how cool and collected he seems at any given time. More so now that I know what he’s hiding, and how much he’s confided in me. It’s still there, that stoic, alpha presence that makes me weak in the knees. Is that the product of hormones…or love?
“Ready to fall on my dick?” he growls.
I blow out a long, defeated breath. “We have to be fast.” I look at my cell phone to check the time and then set it down on the table next to the door. “Condom?” I ask. His gaze meets mine and I see the decision written on his expression.
Aidan stalks toward me, erection bobbing as he takes me into his burly arms. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “You okay if we don’t use a condom?”
I nod, biting my lip. “Yes.” It will be the first time we haven’t used one and it makes my head swim.
“Okay, wellyouneed to be fast.” His hand slides between my legs. When he finds wetness, he dips down, picks me up, and thrusts his dick inside while turning so my back presses the wall. I let out a loud squeal when he slides in and out of me. Aidan lays his forehead against mine and it only takes a few minutes before we’re both slick with sweat and on the brink of orgasm—his throaty growls of pleasure pushing me closer to the brink.
Skin slaps and his hands dig into my ass as he groans against my neck. I hold my breath as the pleasure rolls inside me, my whole body tensing at the peak. Collapsing in his arms, I’m no adversary for his thrusts, but it’s only a few more pumps before he jerks, cum funneling deep within my body. He always comes after me. Always.
“How do you come at the right time, every time?” I breathe, leaning off his shoulder, to brush his tousled brown hair off his face. “It’s unnerving.”
“You don’t like it?”
I quirk a brow. “I love it. Just didn’t know it was a thing. That men had control of the when.”
He chuckles, and his face is devastatingly handsome. His eyes are clear, and that freaking smile is so genuine it hurts. “I’ve told you everything else anyway, might as well tell you the truth.”
“That bad?” I pry. Aidan’s gaze is locked on my mouth
He licks his lips. “No, I just think about not coming. It takes every single cell in my body to join in the effort to not come. Sometimes I pray you come. That’s why, when I told you to tell me what you like, it’s actually for me.” A blush crosses his cheeks. “That was the single most amazing feeling in the world, by the way. We can never use a condom again.”
“Selfish, Aidan Mixx,” I counter, my mouth open in mock outrage.
“But I do haveyourbest interests at heart. Don’t forget that.” He sighs. “I don’t want to let you leave. I want to stay inside you all day.”
My eyes flutter closed as I concentrate on our joined bodies. I flex my core, and he jerks one more time inside of me. “I’d like that,” I whisper. He trails a kiss along my dewy neck and ends at the bottom of my ear. “I’d like that very much. But…”
He cuts off the rest of my sentence with a kiss as he grinds his pelvis against my clit. It’s at least thirty seconds of agonizing bliss, knowing it’s the end and I have to leave the throes of our perfect night. When Aidan pulls away from the kiss, he pulls his cock out of my body and lets me slide back down to my feet, panting, gazing at him like a wild animal seeking prey. I want more of him. The need is carnal. His eyes are narrowed and his brow furrows as his chest rises and falls up and down. His appearance mirrors my emotions exactly. Down to breaths—his tendons and muscles contracting and flexing, gaze flicking over every inch of my body like a territorial animal.
“You have to go,” he says, voice cracking as he finishes my sentence.
“I do,” I say.
“Then go,” Aidan says, opening his arms wide, an invitation to disobey his half-hearted order.
I steady myself by pushing off the wall. “Come with me,” I reply, taking tentative steps toward his bedroom. He’s still looking at me, like that, and I still desire him in every single way imaginable. “Please,” I test.
He smiles, shaking his head. “As if I have an option at this point.”
_______________
He picked me up from middle school every Wednesday. When I was eleven, I remember speed walking through the open air corridor toward the front of the school, excitement coursing through my body because it was the end of the school day and because my grandpa would be waiting. He was always the first in the pick-up line, leaning against the side of his burnt orange pick-up truck with a cap on, his passenger side door open—waiting for me. It was the equivalent of a red-carpet welcome, and it made my heart squeeze with love every single week. Grandpa’s face would split into a beatific smile the second I rounded the corner. I never had to guess, I knew, that picking me up from school was the very best part of his day. Do you know what that feels like? To be somebody’s best part?
After he’d smile, he’d open his arms and say, “There’s my squeaky-mo! How was your day, kiddo?” I’d hug him from the side, around his big ole belly, and he’d kiss the top of my head as I told him about my day. Grandpa said I squeaked instead of cried when I was a newborn and he called me that nickname every day. I liked it. It was only mine.
I’d climb into the cab of his truck, and he’d close the door behind me. I’ll always remember the scent. The antique polish, and the dusty smell of old things. The back of his truck was always filled with antiques of every shape and size. I’d ask if he found any treasures while he was at yard sales and the flea market, and Grandpa would tell me, in detail, about every “super find” he purchased. I listened, intent on every single word because if he derived that much happiness from his treasures I wanted to learn all I could. As he spoke, he waved at the kids as we passed them walking from school, and he smiled so big and so wide that it made me happy being in his proximity.
When I was eleven I didn’t care, would never think to be embarrassed by his funny words or open affection. His bad heart made sure he didn’t live long enough for that to happen, and a lot of the time I’m happy about that. What would his face look like when he picked up the angry teenaged version of me and my face was pointed at the ground, cheeks red. How would he take it when he found out the best part of his day was the worst part of mine? What would he think of all the time I spent ignoring my passion? The devastation of my marriage crumbling would have killed him. The memory of what could have been chokes me as I check out an older gentleman, taking care to wrap the ceramic carefully with newspaper.
