Before Him

Until I do.

37

Roman

PRESENT

LOVE TRUNCHEON

“Yours was a mouth created by an artist,” I whisper, swiping my thumb over the bow of her lip. “This little freckle here . . .” She’s already rolling her eyes before I’ve finished my ode to a freckle. Moths flutter manically above, drawn to the porch light as I am to her. “Don’t freckle shame me.” I murmur my warning, tightening my hands on her hips.

“I think you’ll find it’s a beauty spot,” she replies, teasing now.

“Fuck, yeah, it is. It’s such a little flirt.” With a breathy sigh, her lashes flutter closed as my lips brush against hers.

“I always hated it as a kid.” She turns her head, pressing her cheek to the door as I work kisses along her jawline. “After watching Matilda as a kid, I worried I might turn into the Trunchbull.”

“I don’t know who that is, but it’s one of my favourite parts of you.”

“You mean—oh.” She sighs as my thumb brushes her nipple over the fabric of her dress.

“Hmm?”

“You mean—” I do it again, simultaneously grazing my teeth over her dainty little earlobe. My hips press hers into the door when it seems her knees might give out for a second.

“You were saying?” Fuck, yes. She arches, pressing back.

“You mean you’re not into my sparkling wit and vivacious personality?” Her chest heaves, the words falling in a rush.

“What masochist doesn’t live to be rejected by the person he loves most in the world?”

“Can we just go inside?” As her fingers grapple with the front door handle, I notice the black band I’ve drawn over her ring finger. The sight is like a burst of pleasure in the centre of my heart.

“Not until you tell me what you love about me,” I answer, pressing my hand over hers.

Her eyes close for a beat, her mouth curling into the smallest yet most perfect of shy smiles. “All of you. I love every part of you.”

“Right answer.” I feel like my heart is about to burst—burst in a couple of ways as she slides her hand between us, her fingers curling over my hard cock. “I don’t know about Trunchbull, but I think you love my truncheon.”

“Your love truncheon.” She giggles, and this time when she turns the handle, the door pushes wide.

We fall into the kitchen, laughing, high on love and each other as the screen door smacks loudly closed behind us. I really need to fix that fucking door. Kicking the back door closed after it, I manage to slide my hands around her before she stumbles backwards and slams into the kitchen table.

“Close call.” Her smile is pressed to mine. There’s so little space between our bodies that I swear I can feel her heart beating as I tighten my grip and back her up against the kitchen table. Her eyes flutter closed, her fingers curling around the edge of the table as I press my mouth to her neck.

“Where’s your rabid guard dog?”

“Are you worried about your ankles?” she asks with a tiny puff of laughter.

“It’s not my ankles I’m thinking of exposing.” She laughs again, though not for long as I stroke her mouth with my tongue, tempting her to open for me.

To open. Submit. To yield to me.

And she does. Fuck, yes, she does. She tastes of wine and of want and other things hard to explain, but I instinctively know them anyway. Know this fervency as I lift my shaking hand and curl it around the curve of her hip. Her body stretches against mine, making me groan with her intentions, with the contact. We should probably go upstairs, but we won’t.

“Kennedy.” I rest my forehead against hers, balling my fist in her dress. I need a moment, a moment to slow this down and control the fierceness brewing inside me. I want to throw her down, to force her back, fill her the fuck up, punish her for giving me the fucking run-around. So I breathe and let it all out. She deserves better, and that’s what I want for her. The fabric of her dress is slippery between my fingers, reminding me of how she’d looked in the bar. Forlorn yet so steadfast, her dress clinging to the curve of her thighs, the hem flirting with her knees. The lustrous green shimmered as I’d followed her out the door, my heart cramping at the prospect of what-if. What if she walked out of my life? What if she wanted no part of me?

“What is it?” Disquiet flits across her expression. My hand rises without thought, cupping the graceful curve of her cheekbone.

“You’re always so concerned for others, little love. But it’s my turn now. I’m going to look after you.”

A pained expression crosses her face. I think if I hug her, I’ll just make things worse. Instead, I opt for distraction, sliding my hand up to find the zipper of her dress. Dark moonlit eyes and the soft susurrus of her zipper. The fabric sags, and she shivers as I slide my hand across her back. My fingers dip into the back of her panties, my teeth now scraping across the skin of her neck.