She flexed around me, so wet I could enter her without trouble. Under my thumb, her clit pulsed. She was close. I took her faster, harder, slamming into her where she held me so tight. Not giving an inch. The wind howled, blocking some of the slap and slide of our bodies. We were both moaning and groaning and grinding like our lives depended on it. My balls slapped her ass, I was going so deep. She clawed me, squeezed me, panted with me. Everything together.
God, I couldn’t hold on much longer.
Without warning, she fisted me and released, her powerful spasms twisting through my system with the same force as the wind at my back. Broken gasps left my throat. My lungs seized and I couldn’t haul in enough oxygen. She surrounded me, drenching me in everything she was…that had somehow become all I wanted.
She trembled in my arms, sliding down my chest while she softened around me. Liquid heaven. I was throbbing so hard that the light pulsed, casting her in a purplish haze. Forget her seeing stars. My head was about to explode.
Then I was coming, and I couldn’t stop myself from launching myself into her body wildly enough to drive her up the wall again. She cried out, and I immediately chastised myself, but I was shaking too much to cushion the blow of my hips ramming into hers. She took it, every bit. Breathing “it’s okay” over and over while she caressed my head.
I chanted her name as we pinned each other in the most erotic mutual TKO of my life.
Mia.
Mine.
Chapter Thirteen
Mia
When I was a baby, my mama loved to cradle me on her lap in the afternoon while we waited for my dad to get home from work. She’d rock back and forth in the chair I still had in my living room—the only thing I’d brought with me from my house—and sing all of Johnny Cash’s old songs. “Ring of Fire,” definitely. But her favorite was “Jackson,” so it was mine too.
I’d never been big on metaphors. A fist to the gut instead of the jaw was about as subtle as I got. But all the fire references in those two songs seemed to fit the cauldron I’d somehow fallen into ass first.
Sleeping with Fox was bad enough. I didn’t have sex with guys. But I could’ve explained that away easily enough as just biology. I was twenty-one and I hadn’t had an orgasm since I was fourteen, and never one that had been given freely.
That was one thing. I would’ve forgiven myself for that. He was hot, and I was only human. If I’d been the sort of female to get all excited over a guy, I probably would’ve drooled a little every time he stalked toward me with those ocean-blue eyes fixed on mine.
But going home with him, willingly? How could I explain that?
He’d started stomping on my buttons while I was still a shivery, sweaty mess in his arms. A big part of the problem was that I didn’t even really remember what coming felt like. Stupid. Embarrassing. I just knew I had before, and back then I’d been praised for my body’s betrayal.
This was different. I didn’t know how to categorize this experience.
Was it a good orgasm? How could I tell? It seemed pretty spectacular, but I wasn’t in the position to judge. I wanted to ask Fox, but if he got an inkling about my lack of sexual knowledge, he’d go all caveman on me and offer to show me what I’d been missing.
Better I didn’t know.
Then, while I was still confused and kind of lust-drunk and pulsing all over, he hugged me close and rubbed my back with his big, strong hands. He told me I was coming home with him, that he would give me a bath and a massage. Both were practically foreign words. A massage at the gym was not the same thing as he was suggesting, I was sure.
And a bath? In an actual tub? I hadn’t had one of those since we’d lived in our first house when I was a little kid.
I’d crumbled like a fresh baked cookie. He melted my chocolate chips and cracked my macadamias with a look. A touch. I’d always shied away from physical contact unless it came in the form of punches and blows. But tonight I’d liked being held.
Momentary insanity.
Now we were walking toward his place in the falling snow, and he was holding my hand. And I was letting him.
Clearly, I could never have another orgasm again. Ever.
Not even if I really wanted another.
Maybe a couple.
His hand was so cold that our bones were practically rubbing together. As we trudged through the accumulating snow, I pictured my skeleton under my skin. Strange, inappropriate thoughts were nothing new for me, but I didn’t want to be that girl tonight. So I focused on the warmth our clasped palms were creating instead. Neither of us had gloves. I’d lost his sometime since yesterday, which really sucked since I liked them almost as much as the coat.
They’d cost him fifty-nine dollars and sixty-two cents, he’d said, and he was now running me a tab.
He’d be surprised one day, long after all this was over, when he received a check in the mail. By then he’d be married with beautiful blond babies, probably solid, strapping sons, and he’d open a plain white envelope and see my name.