Page 51 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
What I wanted was him inside me. Though I rarely came from actual intercourse, what I wanted more than a life-altering orgasm in that moment was to be as close to Roman as I could possibly be. I wanted to be full of him, joined with him.
“Wait, wait,” I gasped, letting go of his cock so I could wrap my hand around his wrist.
He stopped at once. Lifting onto his elbow, he gazed down at me, his face folding with worry. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m not hurt. I’m about to come.”
The worry faded away as a grin arose instead. “That’s kind of the point.”
I returned his grin but shook my head. “I want you inside me.”
For a second, he was quiet, his gaze locked with mine as his grin slipped from his face. Then he kissed me until I’d lost all my breath and nearly forgotten my own name.
He reached out, fumbled open a drawer in his nightstand, and eventually brought a condom packet between us.
He shifted, coming up to his knees as he took position between my legs. Bathed in moonlight—oh yes, his body wasbeautiful—he rolled the condom on and dropped to his elbows over me.
“I’m so glad you came home,” he murmured, brushing his lips over mine.
The feeling of being wanted filled my head like a magnum of champagne. Overcome, I couldn’t make words to tell him how glad I was, too, to be here, to be wanted, to want. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck, lifted myself up so there was no space between us anywhere, and nuzzled my face against his chest like I could burrow my way in.
Holding me in that position, Roman shifted and eased into me. A long, low moan left him.
At first, we moved slowly, rocking together, still wrapped up so tightly we were hardly two people. As physical need began its ineluctable overtaking of emotion, our tandem movements became more emphatic. Roman shifted to find my mouth again, slipped away to suckle at my neck, my shoulder, all the while whispering a story of how good he felt with me, how much he loved my skin in his hands, how the tight embrace of my body around his was reshaping him.
I’m not a sex talker, not because I don’t like it but because my brain empties of words in such moments. So I answered him with sighs and moans and gasps, with kisses and caresses. When the next phase came upon us and we were both chasing the most feral of needs, I began to counter his thrusts with my own, driving him as deeply as I went, hooking my legs at the small of his back.
When he seemed to be reaching his peak, and I was at the highest point I could reach like this, I slipped a hand between us and found my clit. Roman noticed but didn’t stop me or get weird about it. In fact, my touching myself seemed to excite him. Without interrupting our rhythm together, he shifted slightly, just enough to give me room to work.
Iflewup the rest of my climb, coming within a minute, so hard my body forgot how to breathe. Roman completed with a roar while I was still trying to find air again.
When it was over, he didn’t drop onto me like a corpse. Nor did he pull out immediately and roll away. He stayed on his elbows, holding most of his weight in his arms. For a few seconds, while we were both gasping like we’d run a marathon, he rested his head on my chest. Then, with a kiss to my breastbone, he lifted his head and looked down at me, a half-smile dancing lightly at a corner of his mouth.
Things had definitely changed between us. I had the feeling that tonight had changed my whole life.
“Hey,” he said, his voice little more than breath.
I combed his sweat-dampened hair back from his face. “Hey.”
“I’m glad you came to apologize.”
I laughed. “Me too.”
I COULDN’T STAY, ANDwe both knew it was impossible. Wyatt was home by himself. So after a half-hour or so of delightful, serene postcoital cuddling, we got dressed, and Roman walked me out to my car.
Before I could open the door, he turned me and pushed me gently back against it, coming in for a quietly intimate kiss. He’d put his shirt back on but hadn’t closed it, so I slipped my arms around his bare waist and held on.
Then Roman said something that a few hours ago would have terrified me. Now, though, I knew it meant whatever I needed it to mean.
“I want to help you with Manfred and the tax thing. Will you let me?”
I played lightly with the hair over his nicely contoured pecs. “Will you listen when I tell you what kind of help I need and what kind I don’t?”
“Of course.” He brushed a finger over my cheekbone.
“Then yes. Thank you. We’ll talk about what that means—when I figure out what it means.”
He grinned and kissed me again.
