Page 83 of Gravity of Love
He’d held her against his body, and she’d lost track of time and sense and everything but the sound of his breath against her ear, the slip and swirl of his fingertips, and the soft growl that built in his chest. Her entire existence had narrowed to the heat that pooled inside her, the ache, and then the release. She’d surrendered to him completely. Her hips jerked once, twice, until she was wrung out and weak. Her nails dug into his thighs—those manly, tree-trunk thighs—and he just held her tighter, as if he could keep her from dissolving.
Her heart beat from head to toe as she recovered from her orgasm, every nerve ending tingling with after spasms. She barely had a moment to register the slippery silk of his chest against her back before he hooked his arms under her and hoisted her out of the bath—in one effortless motion, like she was a rag doll. She squeaked his name, but he ignored it. A feral glint glimmered in his eyes as he pressed a damp kiss to her temple, and he carried her through the steamy air, water dripping in a haphazard trail behind them. He didn’t bother toweling her off. He liked her wet, apparently.
He set her on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of her, his hands bracing her knees. His eyes locked on hers, something wild and fever-bright in them, and for a second, she thought he might devour her. Instead, he bent and pressed his lips to the inside of her knee. Slow. Reverent. Then to the other. Then the delicate indentation at the base of her thigh, which made her squirm, because now the air felt cold, and her skin was hypersensitive. He took his time, working his way up with a series of possessive, open-mouthed kisses, pausing only to look up at her through those heavy lashes with an expression that said,You’re not going anywhere.
She shivered, and not from the cold.
Liam moved up her body, nudging her further up onto the bed, then climbing after her, the mattress dipping beneath hisweight. He braced himself over her, his arms caging her in. The next kiss was soft—almost chaste—on her collarbone, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth. He kept kissing her as if he could memorize every inch of her body, a slow drag up from her breasts to the hollow of her throat, along her chin, and back to her lips. She reached up to pull him closer, her hands sliding over his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as if to remind herself he was really there, really hers.
He finally found her mouth and kissed her, slow and deep, his tongue dancing with hers, until she was boneless beneath him, then broke away just long enough to flip her onto her stomach. He turned her like he was flipping a pillow, and the rush of being manhandled short-circuited her brain. She gasped, a breathless, startled sound, but he didn’t give her time to collect herself. He pressed his lips in soft kisses down her spine, vertebra by vertebra, pausing at the small of her back to taste the water beading on her skin. His fingers spread on her hips, and he pulled her up onto her knees, not a question in the touch, just the absolute certainty that she would comply—and so help her, she did, with trembling hands and a burning face.
He settled behind her, and for a moment she felt his breath fan against her cheek, as if he was breathing her in. “You always had the prettiest ass, you know that?”
She tried to twist around to look at him, but he smacked her lightly, a warning. “Don’t move,” he growled. She didn’t. Not even when he bent to bite—gently—the flesh at the top of her thigh. “You drive me fucking insane.”
She whimpered, a high, needy sound. His hand slid between her legs, and she felt his fingers slide along her folds, covered in her arousal. Her seam pulsed with a carnal ache against his touch, and a deep, masculine groan ripped from his chest.
The next thing she felt was one hand on the side of her hip, tilting it up. Then there was the familiar pressure of his broadhead at her opening. He wasted no time and slid into her in one, long, solid stroke. She felt every inch—his hand on her hips kept her in place, and the stretch of him was almost too much. The sting was on the edge of pain but quickly dissolved into pleasure. Tingles of bliss rushed through her as he surged in and out of her.
Her hands fisted in the comforter, and she buried her face in the pillow, but he pulled her hair, gently but firmly, forcing her head up. “No hiding. I want to see your face,” he said.
She turned her head, and he was there, his face flushed, gaze molten. “Good girl,” he said, and drove into her in a forceful push, filling her completely.
His eyes were wild with flames burning in them. But underneath the fire, there was something else. She knew he was holding himself back. Everything about the man was restraint, control, and precision. She wanted him to lose control, to lose himself in her.
He set a punishing rhythm. It was hard but deliberate. Every thrust sent a shockwave through her. He leaned over her and whispered things into her ear, filthy, beautiful things, about how bad he’d always wanted her, how he’d fantasized about her all these years, and how he was never going to let her go. He told her she was perfect, that she was made for him, that her body was his favorite place on earth.
Then he said the words that pushed her body right over the cliff.
“When I saw you tonight, the only word I thought was, ‘mine.’ You’remine.”
Apparently, she had a possessive kink she wasn’t aware of, because that was all it took for pleasure to lash through her as her body began to milk him. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. He let her ride out her climax, repeating his name like a prayer. Seconds after she reached the pinnacle of her release, shebegan to feel tremors radiate through him, his grip on her hips tightened, and he groaned her name as his entire body tensed.
She was slowly coming back to reality as he collapsed forward, blanketing her with his body. For a while there was nothing but the mingled sounds of their breaths, wild and tangled. Then, gently, he eased out of her and gathered her up in his arms, pulling her close even though they were both shaking and sweating and probably sticking together. Her eyes were heavy, so she closed her lids.
Frankie never experimented with drugs, but if she had to guess, she would say that she was high as she listened to Liam’s heartbeat, as she drifted between wakefulness and sleep.
She felt a kiss on the top of her head, and Liam’s raspy voice said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too. I always have.” She buried her face in his chest and held on, as if he were the only solid thing left in her world.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she woke in the middle of the night to find herself wrapped up in his arms, her head under his chin, the memory of the words they’d said hanging in the air. Was it a memory or a dream?
Had Liam told her that he loved her?
Had she told Liam that she loved him and always had?
If it was a dream, she wanted to go back to it, and if it was real, she couldn’t wait for reality.
24
Frankie woke alonein the king-sized bed, sunlight slicing through the slatted blinds, leaving gold stripes across the tangled sheets and her bare legs. She stretched languidly, her arms reaching for where Liam should have been, but only cool sheets lingered where he’d slept. She rolled onto her side, burrowing into the pillow that still smelled faintly like him—cedar and something uniquely masculine. A folded slip of paper tucked beneath the corner caught her eye. She grinned even before she read it.
She plucked the note from the pillow, savoring his doctor-style, nearly illegible handwriting
Frankie,
Last shift. I hated leaving you. I’ll be home before you miss me.
