She snickers and I spend long seconds—an eternity—eyes shut, taking in deep breaths when that sexy voice whispers, “Whatchu doin’ there, old man?”
“Just imagining the most unsexy things I can think of.”
“I see,” she says as she runs her fingers through my hair.
“Staplers,” I offer, head leaning into her touch.
She sucks my earlobe between her teeth.
“Spreadsheets.”
She drags her lips across my jaw and I fight to steady my racing pulse.
“World hunger,” I supply, voice raspy.
Her mouth moves over my cheek until it hovers above me in an unmet kiss. My will to live dies a slow, painful death as she sweeps her tongue over my parted lips.
“Port-a-potties,” I croak.
Mouths meeting, she pauses as silent quakes of laughter slowly take over her body. Her shallow huffs of amusement join mine as she kisses me through it.
“I’m grasping at straws here, Fish.”
“Mmmm,” she croons, trying so hard to be serious. “And port-a-potties were the way to go?”
We both lose it.
My chest bounces with unrestrained laughter as Gretchen throws her head back, giggling wildly, and the sound does something to my heart. The image clicks into place—one I’ll never forget. The woman of my dreams in my bed, naked, straddling my hips, me buried inside her to the hilt, and we’re laughing. Both of us, laughing with complete abandon over something that definitely should have killed the moment. Yet, it’s perfect.
This is perfect.
She brings her lips to mine as her chuckle fades, saying, “I love you.”
I push all manners of public restrooms from my brain and kiss her. “I love you, too.”
Like a wave sweeping me under, my senses become consumed by her.
I see her hips bracketing my thighs, body perfect and ready for me. The deep brown eyes tucked behind those hot-librarian glasses.
I feel her skin warming under my touch. Long hair, soft and smooth, that slides through my fingers.
Lavender and vanilla fill my lungs as I coast my lips over her neck and collarbone, breathing her in.
I press my thumb to that bundle of nerves between her legs and her voice moaning my name becomes my new favorite sound.
My mouth finds her breast again, tongue flicking over her nipple. No matter where I kiss her, every inch tastes like mine.
Mine.Because she came back and called me hers.
Mine.Because I’m the only man she’s ever given herself to.
Mine.Because I plan to keep it that way.
Tentatively, she rolls her hips again and this time I don’t stop her. My fingertips dig into the flesh of her thighs to guide her movements. Her slow, staccato breaths come in rhythm with each rock forward.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I say.
I thrust upward once to meet the sway of her hips. “Yes,” she breathes, “more.”
