Page 95 of Oz
He hums an agreement and his other hand comes up, one finger touching the sore hole before sliding in under his tongue. The dark bite of pain sends electric sparks into my groin, making my balls clench painfully, and before I know it’s happening I spurt a second small amount of come into my palm. He pulls back, breathing harshly, and I spin round to watch him arch on the floor and come into his hand.
I grab his hand and lift it to my mouth. Holding his glowing gaze I lick the spunk off it, cleaning it thoroughly. He chuckles and sighs. “No more,” he mutters. “I couldn’t get it up again if my life depended on it.”
“You’re the one who ate the come out of my arse.” He grins and I pull him to me, hugging him tight and loving the feel of him against me. “You dirty bastard,” I say admiringly, and he laughs.
“Your dirty bastard.”
“Always.”
“What did you call me during sex?” he asks. “It sounded Irish.”
I blush. “Mo mhuirnín dílis. It means my own true love.”
“I like that,” he says softly, pulling me close for a kiss. “I really like being that to you.”
I redden even more, and he chuckles. I reach up and kiss him, feeling the smile I can’t stop against his lips. He fills his palms with my body wash and starts to wash me, cleaning me up as gently as anything I’ve ever felt. His smile is soft and warm, and he hums contentedly as I do the same to him.
Eventually when the water starts to cool we stumble out of the shower and dry each other tenderly, dropping kisses onto dry bits and murmuring silly nonsense to each other that I know will make me blush tomorrow.
I move over to the bed, pulling the sheets back and already anticipating sinking into the softness with relish. I pause as I catch sight of him standing against the window, looking out in his customary posture. As I watch, he stretches and gives a satisfied grunt before leaning against the window. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him. The long, lean length of him touched by moonlight that catches the content, almost dreamy look on his face that’s always there when he’s in this room with me.
I’m held immobile, almost stunned by the certainty that runs through me, and before I can second-guess myself I walk over to him, sliding under the raised arm and feeling it lower to my shoulders, grounding and warm and everything to me.
“Ask me,” I say quietly. I smile tenderly. “I guarantee I’m going to say yes.”
He looks down at me, his eyes pellucid in the dim light, but somehow, he catches my meaning like it’s written in front of him in neon smoke letters.
“Will you stay with me, Pika? Live with me here in this house always?” he asks softly.
I pull him down to me and wrap my arms around his shoulders as he buries his head in my neck. I feel his breath on my skin and the warmth of his body, and I want it like this forever with a desire that feels like it’s taken root in my bones.
I put my mouth to his ear and I whisper one word. “Yes.”
Epilogue
This is my kind of perfect.
FIVE YEARS LATER
Oz
I sit back on the sand, feeling the breeze hit me in the face, and listen to the roar of the surf. It’s been a sticky, muggy day, but here in our cove it’s cool and fresh. I inhale the scent of pine and salt and smile. Chewwy, who’s been sitting hovering near me, suddenly jumps to his feet with a whine and I grin.
I know who it is even before I feel his large warm hands come down on my shoulders as he lowers himself behind me, cuddling me back against his bigger frame and burying his face in my neck for a second. The greeting he always gives me is as familiar as my own face in a mirror.
I turn to face him, raising my lips for a kiss. He obliges, and I lift my hand and card my fingers through his still-messy wavesthat are now touched with a few threads of silver. He’s forty-three and grimaces when I mention it, but he’s the sexiest forty-three-year-old I know.
“How was your day, dear?” I ask, and he chuckles.
“Long and boring and I spent far too long with my hand up a horse’s vajajay.”
I snort. “What a daring and scandalous life you lead.”
“How’s it been here?”
I smile. “I spent the morning in my office trying to go through some figures.” I point in front of me at the small figure on the beach watched over by the inquisitive form of Boris. “But I’ll give you two guesses how that went.”
He laughs and gives a short fluting whistle, and I jerk and poke him in the side. “How many times have I told you not to summon her by whistling? She’s not Boris or Chewwy.”
