Cross My Hart

I’m desperate to roll her onto her back, to take over, but there’s that look in her eyes that speaks of a desperation, as though she’s proving something to herself, and far be it from me to stand in the way of whatever challenge she’s facing.

We’ve only got one night, but I plan on using the whole night, every goddamned minute, to enjoy Grace as much as I can before I leave. This first time, though, it’s like slaking a ghost. There’s a need humming through her that’s more than just physical.

‘Condom?’ she asks, panting, her eyes sheened with the haze of her desperation. For a second I’m jarred out of this sexual fog and into reality because I was very close to forgetting to use protection and I would have said, until two minutes ago, that safe sex is reflexive for me—as much so as brushing my teeth or walking my dog.

‘Yeah.’ I push out of bed, using the chance to get rid of my jocks, and reach for my wallet. I always travel prepared, even though I didn’t come here expecting this. Seeing those divorce papers made me contemplate celibacy.

Briefly.

Her eyes are devouring me, my ink, my muscles. I watch her watching me and wonder what her ex was like. It’s a thought out of nowhere; it doesn’t belong. I shove it aside, using my mouth to tear open the wrapper, and then unfurl the rubber over my length. Slowly, so slowly it’s almost agonising, but I want to pay her back a little for her own sensual tease. I cover my dick and keep my palm wrapped around the base of my cock.

Her breath is the only sound in the room, hot little rasps that make me feel like I could come any minute. And then she’s moving towards me, around the bed, her beautiful naked body something I’d love to just stare at, but, instead, she barrels against me and her mouth finds mine, hot and insistent, determined. Sweet Jesus, we haven’t kissed before and this is all so backwards that only now, after I’ve had my finger inside of her, do I realise she’s a great fucking kisser.

If we’d kissed in the bar I would have known this would happen—you can tell a lot about your chemistry with someone from the way you kiss, and this kiss is burning me up. Or maybe it’s the feel of her generous, soft breasts pressed against my chest, or the little moaning noises she’s making.

Fuck me.

I lift her arm, needing more of her, all of her, and wrap her legs around my waist, just needing to be as close as possible to her, and spin her so her back is against the wall. My desperate, hungry cock nudges at her rear without design and she arches her back, breaking our kiss for a second but giving me access to her breasts. My mouth, my ravenous, seeking mouth, drops to her nipple and sucks it inwards. Rolling my tongue over her swollen nipple, tracing it, sucking it, my hand seeks the pleasure of the weight of her other breast.

I feel it in my palm, my fingers brushing over her nipple, and she’s crying my name and it feels so good to hear her say it I am bursting inside. Fuck this, I need her. No. I have a ravenous need for all of her; all she offers I will take and take again.

But there’s heartbreak in the room, too, and as I pull away from her, kissing my way up her chest towards her throat, where I flick her pulse with my tongue, I ask, ‘You’re sure?’

Because I’m not a total arse, and she’s mourning her ex and using sex to deal with that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be used, but I want to hear that she’s sure before we do this. I’m not my father—I’m not someone who exists in a bubble, not caring who he hurts.

Her eyes latch to mine and I don’t think her ex is anywhere in her mind right now. This is her and me and the tornado of desire that’s swallowing us up whole.

In answer, she digs her heels into my back so she can push up my body a bit, and rearranges herself, moving over my length. Her eyes are wide as she takes my tip inside herself and every bone in my body wants me to push inside of her all the way, but I don’t. I wait, letting her get used to this, to the size of me, the feel of me.

She digs her nails into my shoulders as she goes down lower, and my hands cup her arse, holding her there, supporting her, and just feeling her beautiful roundness. Lower, and my cock is half-buried in her and she feels so tight, she’s squeezing me in a way that is insanity inducing. Lower, and I see stars at how good this feels. She moans, tips her hips, rocking forward a little, and heat stains her cheeks. She’s riding a wave and I still, watching her pleasure herself on my body for the second time that night.

Her responsiveness is some kind of catnip.

Lower still, until finally all of me is deep inside her, so deep, and we are melded together completely. And now, only now, do I thrust, lifting my head to watch her as I hold her hips still and push, deeper, harder, and she cries out, biting down on her lip, moaning, and begging me for more, please, more.

‘Your wish is my command, baby.’ I laugh, but it’s husky because I haven’t felt this turned on since I was in school and sex was still new and illicit. I thrust into her again and again and her back hits the wall and her legs stay tight around me so our bodies are like one, and my hands hold her arse, her beautiful butt, and I ache for everything, for this and so much more. I find her nipple again, the other breast this time, and I take it in my mouth, rolling her with my tongue, then clamping my teeth down so she cries my name into the room and I laugh, but it comes out strained because my own wave is lifting me up and I feel like I’m losing any grip I have on my control.

I take a breath, keeping my mouth on her breast, listening—feeling—the fast rushing of her heart, the beating that’s like a cacophony of wild horses, pounding hard, and I know I’m the cause for that. Male pride swells inside of me, but I want more. I want to make her come again. And again and again and again. I want to give her so many orgasms that she can’t even remember her ex’s name. Or maybe it’s that I want to give her so many orgasms I forget what a lying bitch my ex-wife was, I forget how much of our relationship was a fake.

Nothing about this is fake.

Grace is giving me everything, all of herself, and this moment, even though it’s just physical, is the most intimate I’ve been with anyone in a long time.

Fuck. Stop thinking so much and just enjoy this!

I pull her away from the wall and cross to the bed; my legs are shaking, desire and adrenaline pumping through them. I drop her onto her back, falling with her so we don’t have to come apart at all, and the second she connects with the mattress I push into her again. She stares up at me, her eyes huge in her face as she looks at me, as though she’s high or drugged or completely blissed out.

I pull out of her so just my tip is teasing her clit and she pushes onto her elbows, her blonde hair falling over her face. ‘Don’t you dare stop,’ she demands, fixing me with a look that is at once frantic and totally desperate.

The fact she doesn’t mind showing how turned on she feels is another form of catnip.

‘Wasn’t going to,’ I promise, not sure I could, even if a thousand wild horses tried to drag me away from her.

‘I’m so close,’ she says, and her cheeks flush pink and her beautiful, full lower lip gets dragged between her teeth. The thing is, I don’t want this to be over yet, not even for a moment, and I think I’m at the edge of my control myself.

I keep my tip at her seam and she writhes beneath me, desperately trying to pull me back inside of her, the keening noises she’s making something my mind will replay often. My mouth drags down her body, finding the underside of her breast and flicking at it. She’s salty and sweet and my gut clenches with a wave of desire—more like a tsunami. Down I go, all the way, crouching off the edge of the bed and pulling on her legs, pulling her lower. I kiss her thighs, the skin there so soft and pale, creamy and raw.

She isn’t moaning now, but her breathing punctures the stillness of the night. She’s waiting. Waiting quietly, uncertainly.

I smile to myself as my hands curve over her thighs and separate her legs a little wider, clamping them where they are, and her beautiful sex is right there before me.

‘Jagger...’ My name falls out of her mouth—a plea, a question.

‘You’re close?’ I ask, my tongue running up her seam.

Her harsh intake of breath is loud and primal.

Her hands scrape as they run over the duvet, digging into it.

‘Uh huh,’ she exhales. I find her clit and suck it into my mouth and she cries out louder now, and I laugh—despite the fact I’m as hard as I can get, the fact we’re surrounded by thin walls and God knows who else on the other side of them doesn’t seem to have entered her head and I’m glad. I love her lack of self-consciousness.

I flick my tongue over her and she trembles beneath me—I kiss her harder, faster, my tongue tasting her until she explodes and I keep her legs right where they are, when she might have pulled herself away, because I want to enjoy every damned thing about her release. As she rides that wave, I push a finger inside of her and she bucks hard, her muscles squeezing me, and I groan then because my cock is more than a little jealous to be missing this party.

But there’s time. We’ve got all night. Just this one night...and I’m going to make it count.

CHAPTER THREE (#ucf14da31-5283-5269-a913-fe1ae66de780)

HE IS SOME kind of sex god. Some kind of kinky, wild sex god. I can barely breathe. I think pleasure has taken up every square inch of my body, leaving little room for other optional extras such as oxygen and blood. No, the blood is there. It’s rushing through me, reaching every tiny little cell, filling me up with heat and fire and flame and need.

More need—how is that possible? It’s like I’m one of those stock market charts and every bloody release I get just pushes me down for a second before a new need swiftly kicks in and takes over.

I scramble onto my elbows so I can look at his dark blond head—between my legs—and I moan again because the sight of him like that should make me feel...squeamish or embarrassed, but it doesn’t.

‘You can just stay there all night,’ I joke, smiling like the cat who got the cream—the girl who got the best head in the world, at any rate.

He looks up my body, over the curves of my breast to my eyes, and he grins then drops his mouth to my clit while he’s watching me and I watch him as he lashes me again with his clever, clever tongue.

And I jerk because I’m so sensitive that the slightest touch feels like he’s attached live wires to me.

He eases up, kissing me instead, just a gentle, soft kiss, and then he stands.

His cock is so hard, so beautiful, and I stare at it, wanting him inside me even when my body is still burning up from what we’ve just done.

‘I want you,’ I say simply, because what’s the point in lying to a one-night stand? I don’t care if he thinks I’m some wanton, sex-addicted hussy. I’m never going to see him again and hell, I do want him.

I’m already kind of high on the fact I’ve pushed my idiot ex way out of my mind, or at least erased his touch from my body. It feels kind of ceremonial—especially the timing.

‘Stand up.’ The command is gruff. I swallow, doing as he says, my eyes holding his as he takes my hand in his and pulls me towards the window.