Page 50 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
I had a lot of things to worry about, a lot of things in my life, and in my son’s, to try to fix. I had to be vigilant about keeping control, making sure our lives were stable and secure on our own terms. I never again wanted to find us shipwrecked on the rocks of someone else’s secrets.
But as I looked into Roman’s depthless dark eyes, I considered that maybe I could be vigilant and still trust. I could lean when I needed help and still be in charge of my own life. I could be angry at Micah and still mourn him. I could find—Icouldmake—happiness now with Roman and still ache for the love I’d lost.
I could feel the scars of my childhood but no longer be shaped by them.
“This is my pace,” I told him as I slipped my arms around his neck again and drew him close.
Smiling, he kissed me again.
Our few kisses to this point had been lovely. Exciting, arousing, intimate, all that kisses should be. But they had all—even the one while he’d carried me here—been preambles. Opening acts. The previews before the movie. Warm-up stretches.
This kiss was different. It wasn’t a promise, it was an intention. And Roman was different as well. He was still the gentle and kind man I’d always known, but now he was also an eager lover. His touches were firmer, more possessive, his seeking hands no longer exploring but claiming, his mouth no longer tasting but feeding.
He was expressive, too. Small groans slipped from his mouth to mine when my tongue touched his, when my fingers scratched at his scalp, when I hooked my legs around his. When his hands slipped under my shirt and I moaned at the hot leather of his touch, he echoed me with a groan so deep it shook his chest. When his fingers unhooked my bra with a deft twist and I gasped, a lupine growl burst from his throat.
Then his hand was on my breast, and the sudden fire that touch blasted through me. I arched backward and cried out.
“Jesus, Leo,” he grunted, his mouth on my collarbone. “I need you now.”
“Yes, yes, please,” I said. I tried to unbutton his shirt, but I was lost to lust and could only pluck ineffectually at the placket.
With a breathless chuckle, stopped me. “Not here. I don’t want to fuck you on the table. Not the first time, anyway.” He picked me up again.
“I can walk, you know,” I said through gasping laughter.
“I don’t want you that far away,” he answered, his smiling eyes full of light.
HE CARRIED ME UPSTAIRSto his bedroom without turning on any lights. I wrapped myself around him and focused my sensual attention on his neck and ear, loving the vibrations against my lips of every groan and gasp I drew from him.
Straight to his bed he carried me, lying down on me, covering my clothed body with his. We both calmed then, as if we’d reached a waypoint on our journey. For long, uncountable minutes, we were simply close, kissing and stroking, nuzzling and petting.
The room was dark but not pitch-black. His curtains were open and the moon was full; each time I opened my eyes I saw his handsome face, his magnetic eyes, awash in opalescent moonlight.
God, the way this manlookedat me. It was like no one had ever seen me before.
I smiled up at him, and he smiled down at me.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Perfect,” I answered.
I reached for his shirt again, this time managing his buttons, and our moment of quiet ended as we stripped ourselves and each other bare, squirming, rolling, twisting, lifting, all the while laughing, until we were skin to skin.
I couldn’t see much of his body like this, but I could feel it all, and it was beautiful. Long and firm and warm. Hair on his chest, his arms, his legs. I slid my hand over his pecs, downwardto his belly, feeling the pattern of hair, finding a wide happy trail, exploring farther and finding the true prize.
He grunted and flexed his hips, pressing himself against my hip. His hand came between us, found mine and wrapped it around his shaft.
“God, Leo,” he groaned when I began to explore his length. “You’re going to burn me to the ground.” His hand then slipped between my legs and eased upward until he found what he was looking for. “Fuck, you’re wet for me.”
“And you’re hard for me,” I murmured, pressing my lips to his chest.
“I ache for you.” He bent down and captured a breast in his mouth. At the same time, he slipped his fingers into me—and again sent an fiery lash through my body, so I arched up and cried out.
What he was doing with his mouth and his hand, with teeth and lips and tongue teasing my breast, with his fingers inside me and his thumb on my clit, with his wholebody, flexing and writhing on mine, it was going to make me come, fast and hard. The hot weight of a climax gathered in my core, and I was having trouble remembering that I had hold of his cock.
Already my body could not be still, was trying to drive him even faster, even harder. The looming climax would shatter me, I knew.
But it wasn’t what I really wanted.
