The Love Experiment (Stubborn Hearts 1)

The first touch of her tongue to the inside of his thigh and he lifted his head and shoulders off the bed. “You are torturing me, you know that.”

Not intentionally—slow gave her time to adjust to him, to his smell, to his body, to the things he liked. She shoved him back on the bed and nuzzled his cock.

“Jesus Christ.”

After that, unspoken words growled in his chest when she touched her tongue to the crown of his penis. They spilled out, unintelligible when she closed her lips around it. She took as much of him inside her mouth as possible and used her hand to hold him. She let it get sloppy and mostly remembered to keep her teeth sheathed. This wasn’t her favorite thing to do, but she wanted to do it for Jack.

She was ready to swallow him, but he stopped her with a hand in her hair and a whimpered plea.

“No, not that way. I want to be inside you.”

She wanted that too. A lesson learned.

She could almost imagine calling it love.

Chapter Eighteen

Sleep after great sex was sublime. Waking to find the giver of the great sex in your arms and having no inclination to want her out of your bed, your apartment or your life was positively uplifting.

Jack usually found religion and release in the fighting pit and point size of a headline, but the curve of Derelie’s hip nestled against his side was spiritually profound. It was early, and he could hear the wind whistling around the side of his building and rain splatting on the window. He had no desire to move.

If not for a stolen parcel and Martha’s bid for freedom, he’d be lying here alone, contemplating more sleep, a long workout and time at his desk. And they almost didn’t get here. Derelie’s retreat had shocked him, but once he caught up to her on the stairs, he couldn’t help but sympathize.

He was a rough choice for a lover, out of practice, out of favor with the whole dating scene. If he hurt her, it would be accidental and he had to hope she’d give him recovery time, because he wanted to keep this sparkling new thing she brought into his life, and not kill it cold with his traditional offhanded discourtesy designed to keep people at a distance.

It might not be as easy to change as he wanted it to be. It was a new experiment and he wasn’t sure of the questions.

He should get up and make her breakfast. He’d need to deal with the antithesis of romance, which was Martha’s litter tray. He needed a shower, a smoke, to check his messages. Things to do. A woman to have under him. He’d prioritize the latter. He knew he’d wake Derelie when playing with a strand of her hair wasn’t enough. He put a hand to her flank and curled it around her ass, brought his own body up hard against her. She came awake with a gasp and a shudder and that shouldn’t have excited him.

Everything about her excited him.

He rolled her so he could take her mouth, a taste of her before she was falsely minty. “Good morning.”

“No.” Grumble. “It can’t be.”

Not a morning person then, a delicious new discovery. “You can sleep some more.” When he’d finished with her. He liked her tasting of them.

She could’ve swatted his roving hands away, but she pressed into them instead. “Am I dreaming?” She hadn’t opened her eyes yet.

“If you want to be.”

“I’m in the Defender of the City, the great Jackson Haley’s bed.”

He squeezed her delectable ass. “Knock it off.”

There they were, those light, bright eyes, offset by her dark brows and hair and the natural ruby pink of her lips. “Good morning.” She stretched, and he used her movement to press more of their bodies together.

“How good do you want it to be?”

“That sounds like a challenge. I don’t do challenges before midday on Sundays.”

“Shame.” He already had his hand to her pussy, his fingers teasing her opening. She moved to give him better access and he took it, making her grab his wrist. He stopped. “Are you sore?”

“No. Maybe.” She moaned. “I like it.” She let a breath out. “Go slow.” She let go of his wrist and twisted to give him her mouth, and there was nothing shameful about what they did.

He woke her fully with the tips of his fingers, with the length of them, tapping, curling, with the press of the heel of his hand. Pressure on the places that made her jerk against him, made her toss her head, buck her hips. He got a hint of desperation with nails in his forearm and a heady rush of satisfaction when her body rattled in his arms.

His own forbearance was considerably frayed by the time he turned her over and entered her from behind. He was the desperate one now, up on his knees, hands on her waist, pleasure rippling up his spine and pain sparking from the bruising on his hip as he slammed them together.