Madly (New York 2)

She pulled him up over her, put her hands on his face, kissed him deeply and long, begging w

ith her body. “Please, Winston.”

“Tell me you feel it, too.”

She whimpered and rearranged herself, sliding over him, a wet provocation.

“Allie.”

“I feel it. I do, I want you, Winston, please.”

He handed her the condom and rolled to his back, inviting her to take charge. She did, but not in the way he’d intended—she took him in her hand, swirled her tongue around the head and licked him quite thoroughly. “Put it on.”

“All right, all right.”

Then there was a maddening interval of positioning and wet latex, Allie peering at his penis to make sure she’d done it properly before she positioned herself above him and guided him inside her body.

“Fuck.” He held her hips. “Fuck, don’t move an inch.”

She rose and fell a bare inch, letting down her hair as she did so, her body exposed and her elbows high. He wanted to remember her like this until he died. Preferably, when he was very old and surrounded by his loving grandchildren, he would breathe his last breath thinking of Allie in just this position.

“I thought you guys were on the metric system.” She rocked back and forth.

He grunted. “Imperial. We invented your fucking system of measurement, don’t move, love, Christ.”

But she moved. She moved beautifully, the cast-off toy buzzing on the bed beside him, his senses filled with Allie, lovely Allie, only Allie.

He wanted her never to stop moving her body over him, looking at him this way, her skin flushed and her nipples hard and her sex wet, her pupils blown with pleasure.

He loved her.

He wanted to hold the love tight to himself, protect it from harm, but he knew better now. That wasn’t how love worked. You found it, if you were lucky, and you gave it away, and you took whatever came back to you, the good and the bad together.

He would love her right now, and for as long as she let him, and take the consequences.

Winston drew her down and kissed her. She tasted of sex, latex, heat. She tasted familiar and divine, and he lost the track, lost himself in her, let her movements pull him along. “Oh,” she said at one point, looking at his face. “Jeez.”

He stroked her body, held her hips, let her set the pace.

It was everything he’d wanted it to be, and nothing he could have anticipated. It was simply Allie, his Allie, and what they’d had between them from that first night, from that moment of meeting in the bar when she’d drawn him close, murmured against his mouth, and licked his lip, frank and sexual.

“You on top,” she said.

“That’s what you need.”

“Yes, you on top, now.”

They rolled, an awkward maneuver that made her laugh when one of her legs fell off the bed, until he hooked his hand behind her knee and pulled it to his hip, and then she moaned.

After that, he lost whatever control he’d had, but she didn’t seem to mind. She helped him find his pace, dug her nails into his shoulders as he sped up, wrapped her arms around him when his bollocks drew tight and he came inside her in one long, shuddering thrust.

He panted against her neck. “Next time, that will go on for considerably longer.”

“Don’t worry about it.” One starfish hand shot out and closed around the still-buzzing vibrator. She stripped off its sheath and wiggled it between them. “Stay exactly where you are.”

He did as she’d instructed, holding his weight on his elbows and watching as she lifted her hips into him, scrunched up her face, her eyes closed, her free hand clutching at his back, raking over his skin until she clenched hard, everywhere, pulsing and making the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

Perhaps that, instead. For his dying memory.