“Yes. Please.”

He kisses me again and then links my fingers with his, setting us back in motion. We walk the short walk to our apartment and I swear the sexual tension between us is so damn intense that I’m hot and wet and aching by the time we’re at our door. God, our door. I live with this man. I love this man. It’s too soon to even say we love each other, but we have, and maybe that’s where we’re at. We’re both seeking that validation that we’re forever, that when this is over, we aren’t over. Love is love, it’s not temporary. It’s not about the eye of the storm. It’s real. We’re real.

We both need to know before the explosion we both know is coming arrives that we’re solid. We’re unbreakable.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Harper

The minute the apartment door is open, we’re inside, and Eric must have hit the light, because a dim glow highlights the room, and the man, my man, as he shuts the door and then I’m suddenly against it, Eric kissing me, his hands on my body, and yet some part of me is aware of him locking the door. The very fact that I feel relief when he does, that I have to feel fear that someone will come for us, is only driven home by my hand hitting the gun at his back.

I draw back and stare up at him. “I hate that gun.”

He kisses me and then shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack before he pulls the gun from his pants, walking to a table a few feet away and setting it on top. He doesn’t put it inside the drawer. He sets it on top. That’s a decision for access and I have about ten realizations in this moment. I step toward him, even as he steps to me. “It bothers you that I can kill, doesn’t it?”

“No,” I say honestly. “No,” I add more firmly. “I just had about ten thoughts. The top two: it sucks to have to be nervous in our own home. And then, thank God, you’ll win if we are. I’m glad you know how to use that gun. The third is maybe the most important. You make me feel safe, Eric, and that has nothing to do with that gun. It has everything to do with trusting you and—”

His mouth closes down on mine, and there is no holding back, not by him. Not by me. We explode into passion. I can’t kiss him deeply enough. I can’t taste that brutal and yet somehow tender, taste of him enough. I lick against his tongue. I touch him, pressing my hands under his T-shirt, all that hot, taut skin over hard muscle as addictive as his mouth on my mouth. He pushes my jacket off my shoulders, and turns me, dragging it down my arms.

He’s barely pulled it away when his hands are on my belly, under my shirt, his touch scorching me inside and out even before he pulls it over my head. Before long, my bra is gone, and he’s cupping my breasts, his big body arched around mine. His lips are brushing my ear, warm breath teasing my neck as he whispers, “You belong here now. I’m going to make sure you never forget that.”

I belong here now.

My lashes lower with the impact of those words and the emotions they stir. I haven’t belonged anywhere in a really long time. That’s where we connect. Despite his success and bond with Grayson, in his mind, he’s always been an outsider. I twist in his arms and stare up at him. “You belong here with me. We fit. You fit me, Eric. More than you know, but I’m not going anywhere. You’ll know. You’ll believe it.”

His gaze lowers, not to my naked breasts, but to my mouth, lingering, lifting slowly, his eyes search mine and I don’t know what he wants to find, what he’s looking for, but I have nothing but sincerity to offer him. Nothing but love. I let him see it. I will him to see it and then suddenly, his mouth crashes back down on mine, and it’s as if a charge explodes between us. We can’t kiss each other deep enough, thoroughly enough. There just isn’t enough to be found and we are wild, tugging at each other’s clothes. His shirt comes off, and I stroke his body, his ink, that beautiful ink, his story, his life I’m now living with him.

“Eric,” I whisper, and I yelp as he scoops me up and starts walking, carrying me across the roo

m. I’ve never had a man carry me like this, but then, I’ve never connected with anyone the way I do with this man. I couldn’t connect with anyone after meeting him. He was too present, even when he was on the other side of the country.

I snuggle into the hard lines of his body and hold on, the way I plan to keep holding on, my mouth wanting his mouth. It’s all I can do not to press my lips to his, but I settle for burying my face in his neck and breathing in that earthy, spicy scent of him, letting it pour through me. I know the moment we’re in the bedroom, I just feel it, the intimacy, the shared bed, our bed.

He settles me on the mattress and he comes down on top of me, his mouth finally back on my mouth, his tongue finally stroking my tongue. And then it’s just pure instinct. We are touching and pressing our bodies together, his mouth dragging down my neck, hands cupping my breasts, teeth scraping my nipple, licks and suckles following until I’m dying with need.

“Eric,” I pant, my fingers slicing through the thick strands of his light brown hair, his lips pressing to my belly, fingers work under my waistband, his tongue licking the delicate skin there.

I moan with the anticipation of what comes next, but more so with what I need, with needing him. He drags my pants down my legs and in a quick movement, my shoes and my pants are gone. Then he’s gone, and I feel the loss of his touch. I suck in air, trying to calm my body, slow my heartbeat before I sit up, right as he’s pressing me back down against the mattress, naked now, the thick ridge of his erection settling thick between my legs.

“You think I’m going to push you away,” he says, his lips lingering above mine.

“Aren’t you?”

“No, baby. You do fit me. I’m holding onto you. And you’ll know that.” He brushes his lips over mine, his tongue teasing me with a kiss that doesn’t follow. “You’ll believe soon.” He seals that promise with his mouth, and my fingers slide into his hair, my leg wrapping his leg, hips arching into the slow slide and pump of his cock.

Time fades into the connection I share with this man, and we kiss and move in this slow, sexy, passionate sway of our bodies. We make love and it’s consuming, he’s consuming, and we savor it until we can savor no more. Until the slow, tender touches become urgent, frenzied, desperate. We’re desperate the way we were when we entered the apartment. We can’t get enough of each other and that burning need explodes into the kind of intense grinding and swaying that leaves no room for anything but physical need. His mouth is everywhere. His hands on my breasts. Fingers pinching my nipples. Cock stroking my sex and I tumble into a mind-blowing orgasm. It steals my very breath and when it’s over, when I can breathe again, Eric is right there with me, following me into release, and it’s pure, raw, masculine perfection, his groan low and guttural. The muscles of his inked arms flexing. The intensity of his expression as he shudders into release.

We end up curled together, facing each other, each of us pressing a hand to the other’s face. I’m not sure how long we lay there and stare at each other, but at some point, his cellphone rings. He presses his forehead to mine. “I don’t want to answer it, but we both know—”

“You have to.” I kiss him. “Answer.”

He’s forced to scoot off the bed and he grabs his pants. I scoot up to the headboard and lean against it, curling my legs to my chest. “It was Blake,” Eric says, pulling on his jeans and tossing me his shirt. “And he just sent a text telling me to call him.”

He sits down next to me and I pull on the shirt, eager for the shelter it offers, from whatever is coming. And something is. I feel it. Eric dials Blake and they talk a minute at most before Eric sets his phone down and turns to face me. “She’s on an American Airlines flight here, but she has a layover in Texas. She’s won’t be here until nearly one in the morning. We have time to talk through our strategy. You can meet her tomorrow.”

My brow furrows. “She thinks there’s an assassin and she booked a flight with a layover? Eric, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“She doesn’t believe there’s an assassin,” he says. “She’s not scared.”

Tags: Lisa Renee Jones Filthy Trilogy Romance
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