Page 157 of Nine Week Nanny
I can't speak, can barely breathe as his fingers trace fire up my ribs. When buttons prove too slow, he tugs and they scatter across the carpet. His mouth moves to my throat, sucking bruises into my skin like he's marking me, claiming me after all this time apart.
My hands aren't gentle either. I claw at his shirt, shoving it up to feel the hard planes of his chest, the heat of his skin. The familiar scent of him, his expensive cologne, fills my senses, drowning me in memories.
He lifts me effortlessly against the door, and I wrap my legs around his waist. Even through layers of clothing, I feel him hard against me, pressing exactly where I need him.
"Bed," I gasp, the single word all I can manage.
Pope carries me there, half stumbling in his urgency, never breaking our kiss. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and suddenly I'm falling, Pope following me down onto crisp white sheets.
Clothes vanish in frantic movements. My bra flies across the room, his belt clatters to the floor, my panties slide down mythighs, and he tosses them aside like they’re nothing but an obstacle.
The city lights cut through the sheer curtains, striping shadows across his face. For a heartbeat, I just look at him, this man I thought I’d lost, and then I yank him closer, crushing my mouth to his.
His lips trail down, hot and rough, until he catches my nipple between his teeth. A sharp cry rips out of me, and I fist his hair, holding him there, arching into the scrape of his tongue.
“Lower.” My voice is ragged. I tug him down, guiding him over ribs, stomach, until he’s exactly where I want him.
The first sweep of his tongue over my clit makes my thighs shake. I lock them around his shoulders, grinding against his mouth, chasing every flick. “Harder,” I pant, dragging at his hair, refusing to let him set the pace.
Two fingers push inside, curling perfectly, and I thrash against the sheets. “Yes—there. Don’t stop.” My voice breaks, but I hold him tighter, forcing every stroke, every flick, until my whole body feels wired to detonate.
“Fuck, Pope. Now.” I haul him up by his shoulders, mouths colliding, breath hot. “I need you inside me.”
He shoves his pants down, cock thick in my hand as I stroke once, then guide him where I’m already wet and ready. I spread myself wide, pulling him in.
The stretch makes me cry out, and I dig my nails into his back, holding him to me as he buries deep. “Move,” I order, hips grinding against his, pushing for more.
His rhythm pounds into me, raw, filthy, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room. Sweat slicks between us, my body straining for every thrust.
“Touch me,” I gasp, grabbing his hand, forcing it lower. “Not just there.” I press his finger behind me, voice broken but sure. “There. Only for you.”
His growl is rough in my ear as he circles, just the way I want. The stretch, his cock driving deep, his fingers stroking me everywhere at once—I break apart, screaming his name, convulsing around him until he follows, jerking hard, groaning into my throat as he spills inside me.
We collapse tangled, his weight pinning me, his arms holding me like if he lets go, I’ll vanish again.
I press my lips to his ear, the words I swore I’d never give him rising to the edge of my tongue.
For one reckless moment, I almost let them slip. But the fear of saying them too soon, of him leaving again, holds me back.
I stay silent, holding him tighter instead, letting the moment speak for itself.
FORTY-TWO
Pope
The hotel curtains leak morning light across the room, sharp enough that I know it’s later than either of us planned to sleep.
She stirs against me, rolling onto her back with a groan and then looking up at me with the most beautiful, sleepy brown eyes.
For a moment, I watch her, smiling at the sight of her. After months of waking up alone, having her here is almost unreal.
“You watching me sleep now?”
I let out a low laugh. “I just woke up, too. But I could watch you all day if you’d let me.”
“I can’t decide if that is creepy or endearing. You tracked me down in a new city and showed up at my apartment. Should I be worried?”
I pause, because she isn’t entirely joking. “Only if you plan to keep running.”
