“Good. I can’t wait anymore,” she says, then grips my shoulders and pushes me to my side as she removes her bra.
I take the hint, rolling on my back. “Come on top of me, love. Let me look at you.”
She straddles me, her hair glossy, breasts full, skin glowing. Then she takes my aching length in her hand, making me shudder from her touch, making me rasp out her name as she brings me against her, rubbing, stroking, driving me wild and hungry. I growl, “Get on me now.”
My naughty lover grins, rises up, and then takes me, sliding down over my dick.
“You feel so good,” I mutter.
“Oh God. Yes, Heath,” she murmurs on a breathless pant.
My fingers curl tight around her hips, my skin buzzing. Hell, my entire body tingles. Sensations rocket through me as I watch the woman I adore take me deep into her body, moving up and down, riding me as I drive into her.
Jo is a feast for all my senses. My eyes can’t get enough of her as they travel down her body—the sway of her breasts, the curves of her hips, the sheen of her skin. Most of all, the look in her eyes as she leans closer, sets her hands on my chest, and pins my gaze with hers.
Her lips part, and a breathy, needy ohhh escapes them. “You’re so worth waiting for,” she says, and it feels like we’ve been waiting the longest time. I know it’s only been weeks. But it feels like so much longer.
Maybe that’s how it goes when you fall so hard, so deep. So far that you’ll do nearly anything to keep her and make her happy.
Because she makes me the happiest, and I want her to be very, very happy with me. So, I slide my hand between her legs, rub my thumb against the delicious rise of her flesh, and stroke until she’s shuddering, breaking apart beautifully, then collapsing onto me.
Lust overtakes my senses, demanding release. I flip her over, hook her ankles on my shoulders, and drive back into her.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she says, urging me on.
I don’t need the encouragement, but I do love it. I love it so much, my own orgasm takes hold, blotting out the world as I come with her, like nothing else matters.
It feels like nothing can touch you—not when you find this kind of love.
Maybe fate’s not fucking with us, after all.
Later, after we clean up, I bring her into my arms, kiss her face, and hold her close.
Maybe I don’t have to let her go.
Maybe I won’t.
19
JO
I expected a library. I tell Heath as much as I wander back into his living room a little later, buttoning up my blouse, pulling on my underwear.
His home is small and clearly well-loved, but there’s a glaring incongruity. I gesture to the cream wall in front of his couch. It’s bare, where I’d expect a bookshelf bursting with tomes.
Instead, his living room simply holds a mantel with several framed photos. I turn away from the photos, parking my hands on my hips. “You’re supposed to have floor-to-ceiling shelves with dog-eared paperbacks.”
He shudders. “Who would dog-ear their paperbacks?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please tell me you’re not one of those people that considers dog-earing a paperback a crime.”
He points at me, all j’accuse. “Please tell me you’re not one of those people who dog-ears a paperback.”
“Fine. I do. But it’s a sign of love! It shows that a book is loved.”
He cringes. “I can hear the pages screaming. They’re literally begging you. Don’t hurt me, Jo! Don’t fold me over,” he says in a comical high-pitched voice that is so not Heath that it cracks me up.
I flop onto his slate-gray couch, patting the cushion next to me. He wears only boxer briefs, black ones that he looks good in, long and lanky and toned. But then, he looks good in everything, and also in nothing.
He joins me, and I run a hand along his arm. “All right, we disagree on dog-earing. But tell me, why don’t you have shelves and shelves of books? Wait. Have you been tricking me into thinking you’re a reader? Or . . . perhaps you actually read on an e-book app?”
He scoffs, wraps me in his arms to tug me close, my head against his chest. He sighs happily into my hair, and the feel of his arms around me is so warm and welcoming. It feels like he doesn’t want to let me go, and that’s why I like it. “I don’t have any books here because I don’t keep them, for the most part.”
I crane my neck, stare up at him inquisitively. “What do you mean?”
“I donate nearly everything I read. I buy the book and then I give it away. Which is another reason why I don’t dog-ear the pages—so others can have them and enjoy them.”