“Shit,” his voice cracks as he falls over it. He holds me pinned, tight against his chest, and through my receding afterglow, I feel him pulsing deep inside me, flooding the condom and gasping against my skin.
One arm is like a band of iron around my waist. His other hand grips the inside of my thigh, bracing me as his final moments throb inside me. I slide my hand along his forearm until our fingers lace. We’re both panting and sweating, and he guides me up to the pillows, spooning me from behind, still inside.
“Jesus,” he whispers.
My eyes are closed. I’m trying to find my feet, find that distance I like to keep between myself and moments like this. Only it’s not so easy.
He’s told me too much about himself. We’re too much alike, and we share too many of the same experiences. I like his strong arms around me. I like his rough touch and frenzied responses to the incredible chemistry we’ve found. I’ve had hot sex, sure, but never deep, soul-shaking sex. A flutter of fear moves through my chest, and I wait.
Still no signal.
After a few more breaths, he releases me. Holding the condom, he slides out and quickly disposes of it before lying on his back. I roll onto my stomach and peek up at him. Large hands on his face, he pushes them back into his hair, leaving it adorably messy.
Then he lets out a huge sigh and, “Fuck me, Janey.”
My eyebrows pull together, and I can’t help laughing. “What the hell did you just say?”
Turning his head to look at me, he grins. “Something my brother said when we were kids. I think it was originally Johnny, but I’d rather be fucked by Janey than Johnny.”
Lifting my head, I bend my elbow to prop my cheek on my hand. “So Janey, is it?”
Marcus looks at me with so much depth in his expression, I don’t know what to do, but just as fast, it’s gone. He rolls back to me, catches me around the waist and flips me onto my back.
I can’t help squealing. “What are you doing?”
His chin is right at my ribs, and he studies my breasts. “You’ve got really nice tits, you know that?”
“Marcus!” I try to sit up, but he catches me and holds me.
“Hang on.” His brows pull together like he’s studying something, and my insides feel like a goldfish out of water.
“Let me up,” I say, but it’s too late
. He’s tracing it with his finger.
“What do we have here?”
“You’re being mean.” Dropping my head back on the pillow, I stare at the ceiling. “It’s a birthmark.”
Just as fast, he lowers his mouth to my skin, giving it a kiss and then sliding his tongue over the light amber mark just under my left breast. Laughing, I catch his cheeks. “That tickles!”
“It’s like a Rorscharch test.” His expression is professorial as he studies my skin. “I see a butterfly.”
“I was so freakin’ embarrassed by it when I was a teenager.” Pushing against the bed, I sit up. His head is in my lap facing me, and his eyes are warm with his smile.
“Why?” Tracing his fingers lightly over the spot, warmth flushes my limbs. “It’s so faint.”
“I don’t know.” My voice has grown soft. “I thought it was ugly? I was finally okay with it when Sylvia told me it was an angel kiss.”
His palm is against my ribs and I’m acutely aware of his thumb sliding over the offending mark. When our eyes meet, his are heated. “Not your guardian angel, I hope.”
My entire body is aware of him. Every touch, every breath. “Why not?” I ask quietly.
“Because if it was, he’s an idiot.” His tone is naughty, and I can’t believe I’m feeling the need for him again after what we just experienced.
“How so?” It’s more sassy than I intended, but I’ll go with it.
His thumb moves up and circles my tightening nipple. My insides clench. “He should’ve kissed you here.” Instantly his mouth replaces his thumb, and he gives my breast a hard suck.