Some Sort of Love (Happy Crazy Love #3) (8 page)

“Never. I’ll fuck you as deep and hard as you want me to.” His dark eyes locked with mine. “I’ll even make it hurt, so it will feel that much better when I make you come again.”

“Yes,” I begged, writhing in pain and pleasure beneath him. “But I want you to come, too.”

“For the last time, this is not about what you want from
me
, Jillian Nixon.” He spoke right into my ear, his voice raw and raspy. “It’s about what I want from you, and right now I want to feel that sweet little pussy come all over my cock.”

He drove me into madness again, with his words and his body, and I cried out over and over as my body convulsed around his, my fingers tight on his ass. “Yes,” he hissed, his jaw clenched. His eyes closed, and I watched his beautiful face twist briefly with agony then ease into pleasure as his body released the tension in surging, rhythmic thrusts inside me.

He dropped his face into my neck and kissed me, his beard tickling my skin. I wrapped my legs around him and sighed, wishing we could just melt right into each other. That our time wasn’t running out. That he’d stay and we could do it all again, with a quick break for some junk food and maybe a bottle of wine. That we could fall asleep just like this afterward, and he could even stay the night.

But I knew better than to ask.

My heart pounded hard inside my chest, but it wasn’t just from exertion. It was from feeling alive—fucking bursting with it. I felt like I could scale a mountain, swim an ocean, slay a dragon. It struck me how empty sex had been during the last few years, just a release of tension and nothing more. No feeling of wanting to consume a woman’s body the way I wanted to consume Jillian’s, of wanting to please her for my sake as well as hers, not just to make sure the score was even. In fact, I hoped it wasn’t even. I hoped it was three to one…but could I ask her without sounding like an egotistical asshole?

She sighed, and I loved the feeling of her chest rising and falling beneath mine. “As fun as the closet was, that was much, much better,” she said.

“So much better.” My lips brushed those pearls around her neck, and it sent blood rushing to my dick again.
Fuck. What time is it?

“Three times better.”

I picked up my head and looked down at her. “Really? Three times?”

She tilted her head, a shy smile on her lips. “You couldn’t tell?”

“I was hoping. Is that…does that always happen?”

“No.
Maybe
two here and there, but honestly, that’s probably because I know my own body pretty well. I know how to help myself along. But tonight…” She shivered adorably. “It was all you.”

“Good.” I kissed her, sending another bolt of renewed desire between my legs, where we were still connected. “I was so worried I wouldn’t have enough time to take care of you.”

Laughing gently, she shook her head. “You had an hour. You only needed five minutes, at least for the first one. The next two took you
maybe
another fifteen.”

“It still wasn’t enough. I want more.”

She hesitated. “You can stay, if you want.”

I closed my eyes, pushing back at the resentment. “I wish I could. But I can’t.”

“It’s OK, Levi. Really.” She squeezed me with her long, luscious legs. “We can go out again, you know. This was only our first date.”

“Doesn’t seem like it, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

I kissed her forehead. “Give me a minute, OK?”

“Sure.”

I got up and went into the bathroom adjacent to her bedroom, removing the condom and wrapping it in a tissue before throwing it away and washing my hands. In the mirror, I saw what a mess my hair was and tried to smooth it back a little, or else it was going to be really obvious to the sitter what I’d been up to.

When I entered her room again, she was still lying in bed on her side, a sheet pulled up to her waist. “I’m being lazy,” she said, a guilty look on her face.

“You’re entitled.” I couldn’t help staring at her a moment, her cheeks flushed, her skin rosy gold in the lamplight, her brown hair splayed over the white pillowcase. “I wish I could be lazy with you.”

She pulled back the sheet. “You can.”

I hesitated for less than three seconds before getting back in bed beside her. “I can’t resist you. But you have to kick me out in ten minutes.”

“OK.” She laid her cheek on my shoulder and put a hand on my chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t try to tempt you.”

I kissed the top of her head. “Don’t be sorry. It will be OK. If there’s a meltdown, I’ll handle it and I will remember that this feeling was worth it.”

“Awww.” She kissed my chest and threw one leg over mine. I could feel the dampness on her thighs, and my cock twitched.

Fuck. Just don’t put your hand on it. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to say no.

But she didn’t touch me there. Instead she brushed her fingertips back and forth over my chest. For a moment, I wished I had a body like Sebastian’s—bulging with muscles, cut with lines. I was muscular in an athletic way, but I didn’t have the kind of abs and arms he did.

“I love your body,” she said, as if she could read my mind.

I laughed a little. “I was just thinking I wish I had more time to spend at the gym.”

“What?” She picked up her head and gave me a furrowed-brow frown. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Settled again, she slid her hand around my ribcage and hugged me tight. “You’re perfect. You’re real.”

“Well, thank you. You’re perfect too, but actually you’re
unreal
. Too beautiful.”

She snorted. “Please. I think unreal would have bigger boobs and a better ass. If I wasn’t so tall, I could probably wear the same clothes I wore in middle school.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I kissed her head again. “You have a beautiful body. Perfect legs, perfect ass, perfect breasts, and—don’t think I’m weird, but I fucking love your neck and shoulders. This necklace drove me crazy the first time I saw you in it, at the wedding, and then when I saw you had it on again tonight, I almost lost it right there at the bar.” I touched the pearls on her neck, then ran my hand down her arm. “And your skin is like heaven. What the hell do you put on it anyway, to make it feel like satin? And it smells so good—like grapefruit or something, but it’s so sweet. ”

She laughed. “Thanks. That’s probably essential oil. I have an allergic reaction to most perfumes.”

I inhaled deeply. “God, I love it.”

Her fingers found my scar and traced it. “What’s this from?”

“That is from an unfortunate run-in with a chain link fence. I was trying to climb over it and my shoelace got caught. The top of it gouged my side.”

She winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, and I fractured my wrist breaking the fall on the other side.”

“Jeez. Are you accident prone?”

“Not anymore. I was a dumbass daredevil as a kid, but since I became a dad, those days are over. Now I have to watch my own daredevil at the park.”

“Is he? A daredevil?”

“Yes and no.” I rubbed her back as I thought about it. “He’s aggressive in some ways, and he will play rough like boys do, but it takes him a while to feel comfortable joining in with other kids. He also doesn’t feel pain the way most people do. So I worry about him hurting himself and not even knowing it.”

She patted my side. “I should let you go home to him.”

I squeezed her. She felt so good in my arms. When was the last time I wanted to hold a woman all night? “I wish I could stay.”

“Another time.” She sat up and looked down at me, a wry smile stretching her lips. “You might want to fix your hair before you go.”

I frowned. “I thought I did.”

“Think again.”

I tackled her, getting her by the shoulders and throwing her onto her back. With her head at the foot of the bed, I took her wrists in my hands and pinned them above her. My hair flopped forward, making her grin.

“Be nice, little girl.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I’ll take these bedsheets and tie you up, then torture you with my tongue.”

She giggled. “That doesn’t sound like torture.”

I kissed her smug little grin. “Just you wait.”

• • •

While I got dressed, Jillian used the bathroom, then threw on a t-shirt and underwear. “Give me two more minutes,” she said, taking a pair of blue plaid pajama pants from her dresser drawer. “I want to send some soup home with you.”

I followed her to the kitchen, which was actually on the second level of her townhouse, a long narrow space with plain maple cabinetry, stainless appliances, and beige marble countertops. She had two framed photos on the breakfast counter next to a wine rack holding six bottles of red. One photo showed her wearing a white lab coat and holding a diploma, a stethoscope around her neck, and her entire family surrounding her. The other was a close-up of Jillian with an arm around each sister, taken when they were kids.

I picked it up. “Look how cute you guys are.”

“Thanks.” She pulled a plastic container and matching lid from a low cupboard, and a large blue pot from the fridge. “I think I’m about ten there. We thought we were so cool because we’d eaten red popsicles and it made us look like we were wearing lipstick.”

“You’re close to your family.”

“Very. What about you?” She ladled soup from the blue pot into the container.

“Yes. They helped me out a lot when Scotty was a baby. Took us in. Gave me a lot of advice. As you can imagine, I was clueless.”

“Most guys your age would be.”

“Yeah.” I set the picture down. “But it started to get a little stifling, all the advice, especially after we got the autism diagnosis.”

“Is that why you moved here?” She put the blue pot back in the fridge and pressed the lid onto the container.

“That’s one reason. But I also felt like it was time for us to be on our own. Scotty was about to start kindergarten, so I figured that would be a good time to do it. The move was rough on him, though—a new room in a new house, no grandma and grandpa living with us, a new neighborhood, new school…he doesn’t like things to change.”

“Well, I’m glad you made the move.” She came over and handed me the soup. “Hope you like pumpkin.”

“I do.”

“I made it last night. It’s Natalie’s recipe. She’s teaching me to cook,” she said sheepishly.

“Why do you look embarrassed about that?”

She threw her hands up. “I don’t know. Because I’m thirty and I should know already?”

“Fuck that. There’s no deadline on learning new things.”

“True.”

“I love to cook, you know.”

Her eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Yes. Does that surprise you?” I poked her in the side, and she giggled.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“My dad was actually the cook at my house when I grew up, so it never seemed strange to me. Plus, without another parent in the house, it’s been on me to put meals on the table by myself.”

“Is that enough?” She glanced at the soup, looking worried. “I should have given you extra for Scotty.”

“It’s plenty. I’m sure he’s already eaten. His dinner is at six sharp or the world ends.” I kissed her cheek. “Thank you. Next time, I’ll cook for you.”

“Sounds good.” She put her arms around my neck. “This was fun. I hope you aren’t home too late.”

“I will happily suffer the consequences if I am.” Wrapping my free arm around her waist, I hugged her close, inhaling her sex-and-citrus scent. “I’ll call you this week.”

“OK.”

She walked me to the door, and after one more kiss, I forced myself to leave.

On the fifteen-minute drive home, I did nothing but think of her, every sense bombarded with memories. I could still feel her softness, taste her sweetness, smell her skin. I could still see her eyes closing, her back arching, her fingers clutching my shirt. I could hear her quiet sighs and her loud cries, my name a plea on her lips.

Fuck. My balls ached, and my cock did not seem to understand that there would be no encore tonight. I shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, trying to adjust myself.

But it wasn’t only that I wanted to have more sex with her—although I did. (We hadn’t even gotten to position two on my church list.) That feeling of lying next to her afterward, talking and laughing and touching each other…I wanted that, too. I’d never had that with anyone, and it was so easy with her. And I wanted to hear more about her—what did I really know?

I knew how she liked her martini. The name of her vibrator. That she was allergic to perfume. Drank champagne at weddings. Wore fuck-hot lingerie under her clothes. She liked red wine and popsicles, pumpkin soup and flannel pajamas, black lace and pearls.

But what was her favorite song? Her favorite color? Her favorite movie? Did she sleep on her stomach or back? Did she like e-books or paperbacks? Sand or snow? Staying up late or waking up early?

Then there were harder questions.

What was she looking for with me?

I hadn’t dated anyone in years, because I wasn’t good at balancing Scotty’s needs with anyone else’s, even my own. There was the occasional friendly fuck with a woman who did some design work with my uncle’s firm, but Alison was older, divorced, and not looking for anything more than I was, which was basically just an adult human connection. (For about twenty minutes.) But when it was done, it was done. I never thought about her afterward, and I doubt she thought about me. I certainly didn’t give a shit about her favorite color. And the sex was just functional. It was sort of like maintenance on your furnace or something—from time to time you needed to do it, but once it was done, you didn’t think about it again until the following winter.