Page 90 of The Plus Ones
I was not prepared for how freaking gorgeous and huge his townhouse is.
Keaton was not prepared for how freaking delicious my homemade soup is.
Neither of us were prepared for how enthusiastically and relentlessly Jackpot would hump my freaking leg. He is neutered, but Keaton thinks it’s the cocoa butter lotion I’ve been using. I just don’t want to stop using it because it reminds me of the vacation. But the skin on my shin actually started to chafe. The door to the bedroom is closed, and we try to ignore the dog, who is scratching at and around outside it.
“I feel so much closer to Jackpot now,” Keaton says as he peels off my cardigan and kisses my shoulder and my neck before pulling off my camisole. “We finally have something in common.”
“An aversion to shitting in the snow?” I have to place my hands on his chest to keep from swaying. His kisses still feel new and unnerving in the best way.
“Good point. We now have two things in common. That and an irresistible desire to mount you and claim you for our own.”
“I appreciate that you yourself haven’t made me chafe yet.”
“Yet.” He traces along the scalloped edge of my bra with his fingertip and then unhooks it at the back. I watch his face as he watches my breasts spill out and into the palms of his confident hands. There’s a reverence in his expression that humbles me while also making me feel so much more than foxy. I feel like a queen.
In many ways we’re so familiar to each other, but the sense of discovery is still thrilling, and I hope it lasts. I hope all of it lasts. I’ve even started to imagine what he’d look like as he gets older, and I want to be here to watch him become a silver fox. I had my career mapped out before I graduated from high school, but this is the first time I’ve really thought about what the future would look like with a man, beyond a few years at a time.
In just a few days, I’ve gone from being shocked that he could be The One to being shocked that I had spent so long convincing myself that he couldn’t be.
I undress him just as slowly and attentively as he undressed me, paying special attention to his chest—the one that I now absolutely believe most women can’t handle seeing. It is perfect. His pecs are beautifully formed and covered with a sparse layer of light-brown hair that gradually became more golden in the sun, and I can’t keep my hands or my lips off it.
“Fucking hell,” he says in a totally different tone from how he usually says those two words when we’re getting naked with each other. “I’m sorry. I have to put him in his room.”
“Yeah, that’s getting hard to ignore.” Jackpot has been whining and whimpering and rattling the door.
“You might want to hide in the bathroom before I open this door.”
I do.
By the time Keaton returns, I am in his bed, completely naked between the most luxurious sheets I have ever luxuriated in. The big, sturdy, and reliable bed frame and the heavy masculine headboard with these billion thread count sheets is a heady combination that sends all the blood straight to my lady parts in the same way that his refined but fearless hands do.
“Well now. Don’t you look right at home in my bed.”
“What kind of sheets are these?”
“Magical. Because they’re mine.” He drops his pants and boxers to the floor and climbs in with me.
We both groan because the feel of skin on skin and skin on sheets is so exquisite. The weight of his body on mine is what I’ve been missing since last night. That’s a lie, I’ve missed every single thing about him, everything he says, everything he does to me.
My hands are roaming all over his back when he hikes my legs up and pushes inside me. I’ve been wet for him since last night—since last week, really—and everything about the way we are together now is smooth with just a hint of the friction we used to have, and it is delicious and wonderful.
“Fuck, I’ve missed being inside you,” he mutters. “I don’t know how I made it through the day.”
“Make up for last night,” I say. “Make up for all the lost time. Don’t hold back. Just break the fucking bed if you can.”
I hear air blow out of his nostrils, and he says, as he presses down into his hands to raise his torso up, “This bed was custom-made, and I said to the guys who installed it that I wanted it to withstand King Kong-style jungle sex. But you’re the only woman I’ve ever been with who’s asked for it.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Fucking hell, you are my kind of lady.” His thrusts come at me slow and strong and then hard and fast.
He wasn’t kidding about this bed; it isn’t moving, even though I am pretty sure if it weren’t for the two pillows behind my head, I’d have a concussion already.
He grabs hold of the top of the headboard for leverage, and I grip the sides of the pillow, both of us panting and crying out.
I’ve never wanted so badly to feel like someone’s becoming a part of me.
I want to feel him between my legs all day tomorrow—or for the rest of my life, maybe.
