He could go deeper, like this, and he slid inside me all the way to the hilt, until I felt the heat of his body against mine. He started to move and he was iron and silk inside me, filling me, every sweet backwards drag and quick, hard thrust making the pleasure spiral higher inside me. I pressed my cheek against the cold glass, the blizzard just a hazy blur outside. He began to slam me, his fingers curling around the crease of my hips to pull me back onto him.
His voice was ragged, the Irish raw and savage, nuggets of silver in freshly-broken rock. “Christ, Amy, you’re amazing.” He grabbed my rump, his fingers rough with need. “Always knew you would be.”
I was incapable of speech. With every thrust, the pleasure compressed, tightening and tightening towards the point of bursting. His thrusts were so strong, now, that I was being shifted along the seat and had to brace my hands against the door. My climax was like a living thing inside me, now, hurling itself back and forth, demanding release.
His thrusts got faster, faster, building to a peak. As he slammed into me, he slowly pulled me back against him until I was kneeling, my back pressed against his chest. He filled his hands with my breasts, pinching the nipples lightly, and the pleasure compressed and brightened: God, yes!
And then he pushed me forward, burying himself in me while pushing me up against the window. My breasts, still damp and super-sensitive, pressed against the cold glass, the chill shock of it against my hot flesh indescribable. I knew there was no one outside to see but the feeling of being so wantonly, filthily on show, coupled with the press of his hard body against me, the endless, silken stretch of him inside me—
I screamed my orgasm out into the snow, shuddering around him again and again. He put one hand under my chin and twisted my head around for his kiss, our lips meeting just as he growled and shot inside me.
35
Amy
WE LAY with him spooning me from behind, both of us naked. The rear seat was warm from our coupling and, with both coats layered over us as blankets, it was cozy. Him being so big, I was close to the edge of the seat, but he had both arms wrapped around me and it didn’t feel precarious at all. I felt warm in a way that went beyond simple temperature, protected in a way that went beyond being out of the snow. All my blankets and comforters and the log fire at my apartment, all of my burrowing...these arms were what I’d been searching for all along.
There was just enough moonlight to see by. I could see blurry movement through the fogged-up windows and hear the wind: the blizzard was still howling outside. But in here, all was safe and cozy.
I was wondering whether I needed to start calling him Dominic, now. Dom? I liked it, but I couldn’t get used to it after so much Corrigan. “Are you going to start calling me Amy now?” I thought aloud.
He hugged me even tighter to his chest. “No,” he said, and nipped my earlobe with his teeth. “I like Beckett too much.”
I sort of writhed against him. The way he said it, Beckett was like my sexy, sultry, alter-ego. I felt his cock harden against my ass. The man was insatiable.
I closed my eyes, comfortable and secure. He was a superb cuddler. It was the final proof that the cocky, womanizing Corrigan was a fake. This was his natural state, to be with someone. This must be what he was like when he was married, before he changed. Which reminded me of something I needed to broach, if we were together. “Do you see them often?”
He sounded genuinely confused. “Who?”
“Your ex.” I paused. “You’re divorced, right?”
He went completely still behind me. Had I got it wrong? I was so sure, all the signs had been there. I twisted around in his arms so that I could look at him….
When I saw the expression on his face, my stomach fell a thousand feet. Oh. Shit. My words echoed in my head: colorful baubles I’d tossed happily into the air, only to feel them explode like hand grenades. I knew I had no social skills, but how could I have gotten it so utterly, horrifically wrong? I searched his face, flailing for an escape hatch, a way to take it back—
Two words, drawn from somewhere unimaginably deep, hauled up to the surface in a process that was all fractured, razor-sharp edges and bitter, toxic pain. He didn’t say them, he cleared them from his mouth as quickly as possible. “Chrissy.” Then, even harder: “Rachel.” He swallowed. “They died two years ago. Rachel would be eight, now. Rebecca’s age.”