Page 83 of Close Match
He nods to his end table. I yank it open and almost send the drawer flying. Finding an unopened box both excites and infuriates me at this moment—I’m thrilled because the box was bought with me in mind, but I’m so resentful of the extra seconds to rip it open and tear off the square packet.
“Give it to me,” he growls, then tears it open with his teeth before quickly sheathing himself. I’m bitter by the fact he once again got to touch his cock and I was denied the pleasure, so I don’t wait for him.
Shoving him back, I straddle him and rub my wetness all over him so I can take him deep.
But Monty has other ideas.
Rolling me onto my back, he lifts one leg under my knee until it’s arched almost to my shoulder. Sliding the head in, he lets me adjust to his size before pushing in.
“Yes,” I groan next to his ear before I take a nip at it. Like it was the signal he was waiting for, he pulls out slightly and thrusts back in. And again, and again. Soon, I’m coming around his cock, and he picks up speed. Moaning out his release, he’s a couple of quick thrusts behind me.
We’re both panting like we just did back-to-back shows with no break when he lifts his head and grins. “Do you still remember your name?”
I’m not sure how I have use of my arms, but I do. Running my hand up and around his neck, I whisper, “Yours,” and watch the teasing look melt from his face.
“You know that goes both ways, right? I’m not letting you go through this alone.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were,” I tell him honestly.
Muttering something incoherent, he lowers his head to my chest and listens to my heart for a while. I hope he’s not offended that’s it’s saying I’m scared as hell, but I’m going to give this a try.
Forty-Six
Evangeline
“As a master-at-arms, I rarely had time when I wasn’t on duty. But there was one night in San Diego…” Monty trails off. His fingers sift through my hair rhythmically. I arch against him, purring like a cat.
We’ve been lying in bed for hours making love and talking after a quick raid of the kitchen. I was mortally embarrassed when Monty’s phone rang about thirty minutes ago. He answered it with a gruff “Hey Mom.” I tried to push out of his arms, but the bands tightened. “No, she’s with me.” There was a long pause. “I think we’ll be all right if you and Ev want to go out to eat.” His voice is sardonic when he tacks on after another pause, “No, I think we’re okay just where we’re at.” Even as my face flamed hotter than the sex we’d already shared, his softened. “We’re good, Mom. Tell Ev things will be just fine. We’ll see you both in the morning.” Closing his phone, he rolled into me before announcing, “We’ve got about thirty minutes, and then we can pillage the kitchen. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”
After I beat him over the head with a nearby pillow, I had to give up my righteous indignation when my stomach agreed quite vociferously it needed food.
Now that we’re both done consuming our smorgasbord of fruit, cheese, and bread, we’re lying with our heads cradled by one arm, our fingers interlocked with the other. Monty’s been recounting some of the stories about the military experience. I’m avidly listening as each one reveals another part of his character: the autocratic leader, the loyal friend, the mentor. But this one’s holding me captive for a different reason.
“We were going to be in town for a few days. And even though I knew Mom and Ev were planning on meeting me early the next morning, we decided to hit the bars in Gas Lamp.”
I snicker. “Sounds like a wise life choice.”
His broad chest shakes in front of me. “Right? So, here we are, a bunch of drunk idiots wandering the unsuspecting streets of San Diego…”
“Uh-oh,” I singsong.
He smooths his hand down my side, tickling me slightly. “We weren’t that bad. Cocky as all hell, sure. But we knew we’d have to answer to the XO if we did something stupid. But as we were trying to find our next watering hole, we make a wrong turn and end up on the street littered with art galleries.”
Pushing up, I lay a hand over the center of his chest. A V’s formed between his brows. “What happened?”
“I fell in love.” My heart lodges in my throat. “Through the window, I saw her. Magnificent. Powerful. Wretched. And I wanted her badly.”
Somehow, I manage to scrape out, “So what happened when you went to talk with her?”
His lips curve. “I found out she was $32,000.”
I jerk back. “She was a prostitute?”
“She was a painting. A renowned local artist named Marie T. Williams had painted her. The painting was of Virginia during one of the most violent of storms to hit in recent memory. But to me, it was every emotion I had brewing deep inside me.” I feel the rise and fall of his chest. “I stood there for hours staring at it—no, absorbing it until the guys came back for me.” With a sad smile, he says, “They were such a hot mess, the owner threw us all out.”
“What happened?”
“I went back to the gallery the next day with Mom and Ev. The owner was appalled when I walked in with them, not realizing, of course, I had been a serious buyer.”
