He didn’t drink wine like a wine drinker.
He inhaled it like everything else.
He got comfortable beside me, his arm moving over the back of the couch behind my neck, his knees opening far apart. His blue eyes watched the fire burn in front of us.
I watched him, my hand on his thigh. “What about Bleu?”
“What about him?”
“Will he come with us?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to him.”
“Have you told him yet?”
He shook his head. “Haven’t had a chance. I’ll start looking for a place tomorrow.”
“No rush.”
He turned his head to regard me.
“Now that you’ll be home, there’s not much he can do at this point.”
“I’m still ready to move on.”
“Yeah…me too. I feel guilty for leaving those girls behind, but I don’t know how I can help.”
“Don’t feel guilty.” He watched the fire again. “You wouldn’t want them to feel guilty, right?”
I shook my head.
His fingers moved to the back of my head and lightly played with my hair.
My hand tightened on his thigh. “Claire told me she told you…”
His fingers went slack.
I stopped breathing, and that was when I noticed my heart pounding harder and harder.
“I told her it’s important to keep the secrets someone entrusts to her. That loyalty is more important than anything else. I hope she’ll learn from this—and I hope you aren’t angry with her.”
“Angry?” My voice cracked with a smile. “No…I could never be angry with her.” Impossible.
He looked at the fire again.
“That…doesn’t bother you?” I didn’t know what I was hoping for by digging. He’d already told me how he felt. If that had changed in the last month, he probably would have said it.
“Why would it bother me?” He turned back to me, looked me square in the eye.
My heart gave a quick jolt when I felt the rays of his confidence, of his power.
He continued the stare, his gaze intense, unyielding.
I would suffer the same fate a million times…because it brought me here. It brought me to this man—the only man I’d ever loved. Now that I knew how it felt, this profound explosion inside my heart, I knew why it’d never happened before. Because loving somebody the way I loved him…was rare. You didn’t meet in a bar and then skip off to happily ever after. You didn’t share a few laughs in a café then fall into this deep of a connection. Our relationship was born of mutual suffering, terror, and love. No one else understood it except the two of us.
Now I was on my knees between his, my fingers scooping into his waistband so I could drag his pants down to his knees.
His eyes took me in for a moment, darkening in intensity, and then he lifted his hips so I could get them down. His big dick landed against his stomach, and every time I looked at it, it seemed to be hard, like he was always ready at a moment’s notice. I never had to get him ready, never had to set the mood to get him to play.
I scooted myself between his open knees and started with a kiss against his balls.
Both of his arms moved over the back of the couch as he got comfortable—and he let out a quiet moan.
My tongue glided around and wet the skin, feeling it tighten with pleasurable contractions the longer I kissed him. Like they were marbles, I pulled them into my mouth and swiped my tongue across the textured grooves of his body.
His breaths increased, growing deeper, more labored.
I dragged my tongue up his base, traced it over the thick veins right on the shaft, and then made it to his thick head. My lips surrounded him, and I gave him a soft kiss before I flattened my tongue and pushed him inside me.
He gave another moan, this time louder.
When I got going, moving up and down, pushing him deep into my throat until I couldn’t breathe, his hand gripped the back of my neck, and he guided me at the pace he wanted. His breathing grew deeper and harsher, moans escaping in between, and he thrust a little harder as the minutes went by.
Tears dripped from my eyes and I struggled to breathe, but I kept going, my panties soaked because of the way he visibly enjoyed it. There was nowhere else I’d rather be than on my knees between his, worshiping this man for being the god that he was.
Eighteen
Benton
Constance was always up first thing in the morning, making breakfast and taking Claire to school, so I turned off her alarm before it could go off and handled it myself. It’d been so long since I’d had this luxury, to wake up and take Claire to school like old times.
I made her favorite—mushroom crepes with ratatouille.
When she was ready to go, we walked out together, the crisp winter air immediately dry against the skin. My breath came out like vapor, like I had a cigar in my mouth and a cloud of smoke in my lungs. I used to smoke all the time, but once Claire came, I quit cold turkey. Wasn’t even hard.