He wasn’t missing it anymore.
She went to her knees on the end of the bed and crawled towards him. The shape she made, the sass and dirty gorgeous sway of her breasts and hips, made his head spin, made a sound come out of him that was unconstrained and dangerous. How had he kept his hands off her so long? How had he managed to keep himself aloof from her?
She slipped under the cover and into his waiting arms, both of them groaning at the body contact. He put his lips to her ear and curled his tongue on the roof of his mouth and trilled, sending that vibration through her, making her moan and undulate to press against him.
He rolled them so she lay over him and they started an in-depth conversation based on kisses and licks, on sliding hands and rolling hips, on his fingers skimming the indentation of her spine, the delightful dimples above her arse, and his teeth hooking that hoop in her nipple, the one in her belly.
“Luscious, beautiful, you are so fucking sexy.”
She laughed at him, at the strange savagery in him that made his compliment sound like a curse. Then their hands debated: grips and pinches, strokes and tugs. Their tongues argued: press and twist and thrust. Their lips were in voiceless discussion as to where this was going next: further, higher, harder, softer; strike and retreat, tease and withdraw.
If he’d had more tolerance to chat, he’d have let her make a song of him, but he was impatient and near feral with his want to have her again, abandoning any civility to the sheer driving need to be seated as deeply inside her as her body would allow, as her mouth would accept, as her mind would absorb. He wanted all three, fanatically, nothing less would do.
He rolled them again and she opened her legs to encase his hips. He primed them both with a slow deliciously wet slide against her, it made her buck and bite his lip; the sharpest of retorts, the soothing lap of her tongue, then the cajole of lips on his throat, on his shoulder, her hands digging into his arse, flattering, sweet-talking, making demands as they pulled him forward to meet the flex of her pelvis.
If there was any argument it was the push and swell, the squeeze and pump of him moving inside her, of Foley accepting and easing, swallowing and compressing. His spine was a taut rope of tension from the base of his neck to the depth of his groin, and sensation shook though him, scattering his senses, backchat and interference short-circuiting his reactions and making him into a mindless piston.
He lost coherence, lost lucidity, he was crazed motion, bright hot sparks and rippling heat, and she was gone into the white space with him, back arched, head thrown back, given, trusting and sobbing her satisfaction.
They kissed each other down from the trembling heights, with a language of murmurs and whispers, shaky breaths and sighs. Foley claimed his hips with her thigh, his shoulder as her pillow. He played with the hoop and her nipple. She traced sleepy circles in the sweat of his abs.
“We’re good at that.” There was tremulous wonder in her voice.
He captured her hand. She’d made him a beast, he’d made her a demon, and heaven was what happened when they mated. It was some kind of sacred cleansing ritual and he would never have enough of it. He kissed his agreement into her, because he had no voice and his head was floating in a free zone that was whole and innocent.
He slept and woke when Foley moved, mumbling in her sleep, turning on her side, her back to him. His arm was stiff from where she’d laid. He rolled too, to snuggle in behind her, chasing the comfort of the bed and contact with her.
He caught a flash of that tattoo on her hip. Deep sea blue on sand on sky blue and a flare of red. Tropical colours caught in an obvious puzzle piece shape that was also an obvious initial. It flashed him back to the day of the storm, when he’d driven her to rage, to fight for him, and the wind stole her red scarf, and filled him with a need to protect her before he was fully aware how much that would mean to him.
He slept again, but it’d been a long time since he’d had a proper bed and could sleep naked, warm and safe. A longer time since he’d slept so close to someone. He couldn’t stay asleep. He went downstairs and showered, then came back to bed to listen to Foley’s steady breathing and watch the room shed its shadows.
She woke like a sleepy cat, a yawn, a slow blink, an enormous stretch, then she smiled, lazy and content, butting her head on his shoulder, her hand to his face.
“Morning. You smell good.” Her head lifted, eyes snapping wide. “No fair, you showered.”
He lowered his arm around her, brought her head back to his shoulder. “I can handle you whichever way you come.”
She grunted. “You proved that last night.”
He kissed the top of her head.
She snuggled closer, her face against his neck. “I can hear you thinking.”
“Oh, yeah.” He wanted to feel that moment when she contracted tight around him, when she shuddered through her release. “What am I thinking?”
She was still, quiet, as though she really was listening to his thoughts, then the shake of laughter. “I’m only a little bit sore.”
“What?” He tugged her hair so she’d lift her face, still laughing.
“Don’t even try to pretend you aren’t thinking of getting me all dirty again.”
That was his calligraphied invitation. He bent his face to her, warmth flooding his chest, but she pulled away from a kiss.
“I want a bathroom break and some words from you first.”
He wanted her right where she was. He grabbed her arse, dug his fingers in and held her, and her eyes flared.