“Homicidal ones, definitely,” she quips.
“And…non-homicidal ones?” I ask, our mouths only an inch apart now as I dip my head.
“I have a huge boner for you, too, if that’s what you mean,” she deadpans.
My eyes drift to the nonexistent space between us—to where those perfect breasts are flush to my chest.
“In your pants or in your heart?” I rasp.
“Both,” she whispers, and my own heart fucking implodes when she says, “I like you, too, Damian. And I don’t want this to be fake anymore.”
I raise one hand and press it flat to the side of her neck, and she trembles when my thumb grazes the skin of her jaw. “Then it won’t be,” I promise.
I don’t plan to kiss her, even though it’s killing me not to. I meant it when I said I’m not here with any expectations. But when she rises onto her toes, closing the last of the distance between us, and her plump lips mold to mine, any self-control I had slips away.
Thankfully, our heads seem to be in the same place because, before I know it, both our jackets and shirts are discarded in a heap on the ground, leaving us standing topless in the hallway, pawing mindlessly at each other. I roam over every inch of soft skin I can reach—her stomach, the curve of her back, the delicate line of her neck, those perfect breasts—my lips following the path my hands take. I kiss her like she’s something I can’t get enough of. Something I need to consume. Devour.
Her responses are just as eager, and I swallow her moan when I back her against the nearest wall, my hand skimming the underside of her thigh as I hoist it upward and step between her legs. Her nipples are as hard as my cock as I push closer—so close nothing could get between us, not even air—and I fuckingrelishthe debauched whine she exhales when I grind my length against her.
This isn’t what she needs right now,I try to remind myself, but it’s like shouting into the void. I can barely hear that voice of reason in the back of my head, too drunk on her touch, her lips, her hot center, and the remaining layers of clothing I’m dying to rip off.
It’s only when Blondie claws at my back and yanks me closer that I realize I must’ve said that out loud. “You’re wrong. I do need this. I needyou,” she pants against my cheek.
My heart races as her hands move to my jeans, and I barely have time to process the sound of my zipper before I feel her palm on my cock.
“Fuck, Blondie,” I hiss, thrusting into her touch.
Our movements are clumsy as we help each other out of our pants, and then I’m kissing her again, crowding her against the wall, my dick (which is so erect I could hang a damn coat on it) grazing the wet heat of her entrance. My hands find the underside of her thighs again, and understanding my intention, she wraps her legs around my waist when I lift her as if she weighs nothing. It’s easy to slide into her at this angle, but while fucking her this way is the single hottest thing I’ve ever done—a fantasy come to life, hotter even than our library sex—there’s also an intimacy to it that I’ve never known before with sex. Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve been honest with each other after months of dancing around the lies and the tension. Maybe it’s that I’ve finally opened myself up to feeling something again. Something real.
And I feel everything as I pound into her.
Pleasure.
Euphoria.
Complete fucking bafflement that I could ever deserve this happiness.
As she screams my name, her orgasm crashing around me, I wonder if she finds herself overwhelmed by the same feelings, the same satisfying sense of completion, like the world used to be out of focus, and it’s sharp and clear now that we’re together.
More than anything, I wonder just how deep her like of me goes. As I set her down, and she guides me over to the sofa before kneeling between my open legs, I wonder if there’s a chance, however small…
That she might love me, too.
Blondie and I spend the next several hours exploring each other’s bodies to the fullest, as if admitting our feelings has unlocked some primal need and erased any and all inhibitions. We fuck on the sofa, against the wall, on the kitchen table. Between the sex, me eating her out, and her sucking me off (which is spectacular, I might add), I honestly don’t know how we haven’t collapsed from exhaustion. It’s like we’ve made fucking an Olympic sport, and she makes me orgasm so many times, I’m starting to think there isn’t a drop of cum left in my body. I’m so spent, I feel borderline malnourished, but I can’t bring myself to move from the sofa for sustenance or even for water. Not when doing so means untangling my limbs from hers and the warm blanket wrapped around us.
If this is how I die—with Blondie between my legs, her back to my chest, her fingers mindlessly caressing my arm where it rests across her stomach—then I will accept my death with gratitude, because nothing in this world is better or makes me happier than this moment.
My lips graze her forehead when she shifts her head to look up at me. “Not to be that person who needs to put a label on it,” she begins, her voice rough from what I’m thinking is likely sex-induced dehydration, “but…”
I notice the undercurrent to her tone as she trails off—not of uncertainty or even fear, but of expectation. She needs me to say it, not just that I like her, but where that mutual liking will now lead us. She needs to hear it out loud.
And maybe I do, too.
“Yes,” I say, answering her unspoken question, “you’re my girlfriend, Dornan. And before you ask, no, I don’t mean my fake girlfriend. I mean my for-real one. And I couldn’t be happier about it.” I catch a glimpse of her smile as I pull her tight and kiss the top of her head. “Truthfully, I’ve wanted this for a while.”
“Really?” She shifts again to lock her big, beautiful eyes on me. “Since when?”
“Hard to pinpoint,” I admit, “but it really sank in on Halloween, so some time before that.”
