Page 73 of Accidental Groom
My mouth meets hers in a storm of need the moment I get her through the cottage door. I kick it shut, one hand around her waist, the other seeking out the railing for the stairs as I walk her backward. I don’t give her time to breathe or time to set her purse down or take off her jacket. I just show her what I need.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s a claiming, a silent scream of everything I want to say but don’t have the balls to, and I can taste the sweet hint of her lipstick between my teeth.
“Upstairs,” I rasp, lifting her against me as I finally find the railing.
We’re in her room before I’ve fully wrapped my mind around it all. Her jacket hits the floor with a light thud, and then mine, followed by my tie and, somehow, my shirt. I walk her backwardto the bed in the dark, only the faint light of a hall lamp guiding me, and memorize the feel of her neck and collarbone beneath my lips as I search for the stupid zipper on her dress.
“Here,” she breathes, the sound almost a laugh, as she guides my hand.
The dress is off seconds later.
I can feel her hands fumbling at my belt, hear the jingling of metal as she sets it free, but I’m too caught up in the way she feels. So soft, soperfect, and every single time my hand brushes the swell of her stomach, over what we’vemade, I nearly lose my mind.
“You’re mine,” I murmur, nipping at her jaw just once before moving my lips over the spot where her pulse thrums.
She nods, and my chest feels like it's swelling.
Everything is a blur of need and anger — but not anger at her, never at her. It’s anger at the world, at the people I’ve surrounded us with, at the reactions, at the ridiculousness of it all when I just wantherand the life we’ve made.
My hand’s between her legs before I’ve even realized, her back arching, her mouth parting on a moan against my own.
My cock is in her a moment later.
She opens for me so easily, so desperately, gripping every inch of me as I slide home. “Look at me,” I murmur, but she already is, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath me as I lift my thumb to her lips, letting her taste. “So fucking perfect.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, holding on like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s tilting off its axis. I set a rhythm that’s not gentle, not rushed, butinsistent. Every thrust is a word I don’t have the guts to say aloud.
My mouth finds hers again, swallowing the soft, broken sounds she makes. I can’t get close enough to her — my palm slides from her hip, over the gentle, impossible curve of herstomach. The heat of her skin there, the tangible proof ofthis, sends a jolt through me so violently that my rhythm falters.
“God, Elena,” I rasp against her lips, my voice a broken, gravelly sound. My thumb traces the swell of her. “Look at you. Look what wemade.”
She arches, a whimper breaking from her throat, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light. But they’re fixed on me.
I drive into her harder, deeper, chasing away the ghosts, the whispers, the doubt as much as I can. I want to erase everything that isn’t this.
Her nails scrape down my back, a sharp pain that makes my breath catch in the best way. “Harry?—”
“I know,” I murmur.
My control splinters. The sight of her beneath me, needy and accepting and fucking pregnant withmy kid, is too much. A groan tears from my chest, raw and desperate, and I bury my face in the curve of her neck, my hips pistoning too quickly, too needy.
“Come for me,” I beg, my voice barely more than a broken whisper. “God, please?—”
She shatters beneath me, a cry ripping from her, her entire body convulsing beneath me, pulling me under right behind her. My own release crashes through me like a tsunami, filling her, drowning me in heat and light and sheer, overwhelming rightness ofher.
For a moment, there is only the sound of ragged breathing and the thundering beat of my heart in my ears. I stay buried inside of her, my weight settled on my elbows so I don’t crush her, my face still hidden in her neck. Aftershock after aftershock rumbles through her, squeezing me, making her twitch.
It takes me too long to gain the courage to lift my head and press a kiss to her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.
“I meant it,” I say again. “Every fucking word.”
Chapter 25
Elena
The house is too quiet when Sarah isn’t here.
Even with the windows cracked and the quiet rustle of the late autumn breeze through the trees, there’s an unnatural stillness to Highcourt Hall. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to creak or break or snap.
