The Boy Who Has No Hope (Soulless 6)

Absolutely nothing.

Every day, I couldn’t wait until we got home so I could be on top of her, inside her, pressing her into my mattress so she could suffuse my sheets with her scent, erase all the women I couldn’t even remember. Her company satisfied me throughout the day, but when the clothes were gone and there was nothing separating us, it was a different kind of connection that satisfied the hunger of my soul. The world went quiet around me, and I was completely alive in the moment, absorbed by every move she made, every breath she took, every time she touched me. It was never about sex, but somehow, it gave me more pleasure than any physical relationship I’d ever had.

How?

Her thighs squeezed my hips as I rocked into her, my thrusts slow and deep, feeling her as deep as I could before I pulled back, only to do it again, getting the same reaction from her—again and again.

My lips caressed hers in tender embraces, sometimes with tongue, but mostly just lips, just breaths. When she moaned into my mouth, the kiss paused altogether and we just breathed together, moaning in mutual desire because that emotional surge in our blood was just as good as the physical satisfaction of our bodies.

I’d never had sex like this in my entire life.

It’d never been slow like this, purposeful like this, more about the way we felt being together than the physical reaction of our bodies coming together at the perfect angle, with the perfect pressure.

Her hands cupped my face before sliding into my hair, fingering the strands as she kissed me, as she panted through the pleasure I gave her. Her thighs squeezed me harder, and her ankles locked together against my lower back, pulling me a little closer because we weren’t already close enough.

I knew her body well now, knew when it was time for her to explode around me. I could feel it in her kiss, sense it in the change in her breathing, the tightness around my length. It made me feel good to make her feel good, but it wasn’t another notch on my bedpost, another brick to add to my growing stack of ego. It just happened without my even trying, and once it happened, I wasn’t eager to finish. I wanted to keep going and going.

She came around me with moans that echoed in my bedroom, pulling me closer to her, her face fucking gorgeous when she looked at me like that, like I was the only man who made her feel this way.

She was certainly the only woman who made me feel this way.

We writhed together as we finished, our deep breathing echoing in the dark, our sweaty limbs wrapped together, still clutching each other even though we’d been tightly together for nearly an hour.

I eventually moved off her, trailing kisses down her body, over her stomach, the little scars at the bottom of her belly and tasting the sweat as I went. When I lay on the other side of the bed, I grabbed the glass of water sitting on the nightstand and took a deep drink, hydrating my dry throat.

I came back to her and lay beside her, my head turned her way so I could see the sleepiness in her eyes, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her hard nipples as they pointed to the ceiling. Since she never slept over and always had to leave shortly after we were together, it almost felt like we were having an affair, that I could only have a piece of her and never all of her.

Her hand slid over my chest as she turned toward me to cuddle despite the sweat that made our skin sticky. “You’re so beautiful…” Her fingers trailed over my chest, down the grooves of muscles of my stomach.

My arm wrapped around her, and I cradled her close so I could kiss her forehead. “You’re the beautiful one, baby.” My hand moved over her ribs and down her stomach, getting the flesh against my palm so I could give her a gentle squeeze. She wasn’t flat and tight like most women I’d been with, but I liked it, loved every detail of her body.

She chuckled quietly, like it was too ridiculous to believe. “You think a stomach is sexy?”

“I think yours is.” I moved to her hip and gave that a squeeze too. “I think everything about you is sexy.” My fingers traced over the small scars of her stomach, the marks Lizzie must have made because she had a caesarian birth.

“I was hoping you hadn’t noticed those…”

“Why?”

“I mean, scars aren’t pretty.”

“They are if they’re yours.” She was always so confident, so I didn’t know where this unease came from. “These are from Lizzie?”

She nodded. “I can’t see a man liking the scars another man gave me because I gave birth to his daughter…”