I don’t want to wait.
One day maybe I’ll be able to take her slowly, as I’ve dreamed of.
But not this day.
Not this moment.
No gentle love tonight.
I lunge toward her, claiming her lips as I shove my cock into her heat.
She’s ready for me. Always so ready. Sweet and silky and wet in the most luscious of ways.
She gloves me, and I sink into her perfection. Her paradise.
And I know, in my heart of hearts, that I’ll never find anyone who feels like Ashley White.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ashley
His sandy chest hair abrades my hard nipples as he pumps into me. If it’s possible, he’s even harder than normal, larger than normal.
He fills every empty spot inside me, and as he pumps, his pubic bone torments my clit, and I race toward the top of the mountain.
I cry out as I come, and then I come again.
Dale is fucking me harder than he ever has before. It’s an angry fuck. A tormented fuck. A lusty and exuberant fuck.
All those feelings…
All those colors…
It’s the dark red of Syrah, but kaleidoscoping around the main color are emerald green, bright red, and black.
A translucent veil of black.
Dale.
All the colors of Dale in this one amazing meeting of our bodies.
I come again, and then again, my body responding to him in a way it never has before.
“Damn, Ashley,” he rasps. “Damn it all to hell!”
His words taunt me. He’s still angry. Angry and passionate and full of lust.
It’s always been this way with him, but another layer has formed.
Love.
Dale’s love.
And mine.
My climax has transcended to another level. Another whole plane, where only Dale and I exist. The two of us—our bodies, hearts, and souls morphed together into one. One ultimate being made of love and light.
And darkness.
Always the darkness with Dale.
I embrace it. I embrace all that is the man I love.
And with the next climax, I soar even higher.
“Fuck, Ashley,” he says again. “Fuck it. I love you!” He slams into me just as I break into one last orgasm.
Together we soar across the sky, lighter than air.
“I love you too,” I cry. “I love you so much!”
Our love floats around us, the color of soft pink. It covers everything else—the burgundy, the green, the red, and the black.
For one single moment, the blush of our love takes over.
I meet Dale’s gaze. Strands of blond hair stick to his forehead and cheeks with perspiration. I push one back over his forehead and then trail my fingers over his strong jawline.
His lips are parted, and they tremble a bit. Only a bit.
“I love you,” I say softly.
He closes his eyes and inhales, as if he’s savoring my words. Then he opens them, and his eyes are green fire. “I love you too. God help me, but I do. I love you so damned much.”
He rolls off me and then onto his back, his legs dangling off the side of the bed. He stares at the ceiling, his lips still parted.
I snuggle up next to him and breathe in the scent of him mingled with the musky fragrance of our lovemaking.
“Will you be here in the morning?” I can’t help asking.
“Yes,” he says. “I promised you two months. I’ll give you two months.”
I sigh and kiss his shoulder. It’s not what I ultimately want, but it’s something. It’s more than he was willing to offer even yesterday.
I’ll take it, I say to myself.
And even as I drift off to sleep, I try not to think about how difficult it will be to leave him in November. Already I feel as though I’ve lost a piece of my heart.
My phone buzzes at six a.m.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. Then I remember. I’m in Dale’s bed. At Dale’s place. And…
“Damn it!” I say out loud.
I’m alone in this big bed once more.
Anger rushes through me. But no time for that. I scurry into my clothes. I have to get back to the main house and get ready for work.
I should have known better than to trust Dale Steel.
Was he lying when he said he loved me as well?
I stomp out the door of his bedroom and down the hallway. I’m breathing hard, the rage pumping through me. Then I smell…
Bacon? Eggs? I turn into the kitchen, and—
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Dale’s dreamy Syrah-laced drawl wraps me in warmth. He’s standing at the cooktop, bare-chested and glorious, wearing only lounge pants. My breath catches at his gorgeousness.
“You’re here,” I can’t help saying.
“Where else would I be?”
Myriad answers to his question exist, but I exercise control over my snark. He promised me he’d be here, and he is. Not only that, he’s making breakfast.
“I poured your juice.” He nods to the table.
Sure enough, a tall glass of OJ awaits me. “Thank you.” I pick it up and take a sip.
“Not fresh squeezed,” he says. “We don’t get a lot of fresh oranges here in the fall. Sorry.”