he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sure know how to make a guy feel like he knows what he’s doing.”
“Stop being humble. You definitely know what you’re doing.” Pushing up on my elbows, I had the distinct pleasure of watching his body shift and flex as he stood, then crawled over me, caging me with his arms as he lowered his lips to mine.
He drank me in. The kiss as luscious as fine wine. Heady. Lingering. Intoxicating.
My hands flew to his pants, tugging the metal button free from the fabric, then slipping inside to stroke his velvety length. I swirled my thumb along the tip, spreading the precum gathering there in sensuous circles. Joe’s cock pulsed in my hand and his teeth captured my bottom lip.
I freed him of his jeans, shimmying them off his hips along with his boxer briefs. He kicked them off his feet, then reached into the bedside table for a condom as I yanked off my skirt and unhooked my bra. He took himself in his fist and lined up with my entrance. I cupped his face as he slid into me, then let my arms fall to my sides as my back arched.
His thrusts were slow, controlled. Long caresses of his cock that set my nerve-endings ablaze. As he picked up speed, something deep inside me quickened. Not just the fluttering of a second orgasm, but a surrendering.
Joe Channing wasn’t a criminal. Nor was he an asshole. He wasn’t sent from Hell to ruin my life. Nor did he have dinner parties with Satan and his legions of demons.
He was kinder than I gave him credit for.
Generous even.
And the slow, tortuous pulse of his hips proved my point as his giving nature afforded me yet another orgasm. I squealed and grunted, fisting his sheets in my hands as my body erupted in sparks of pleasure.
The louder I got, the faster he moved. Our skin clapped like thunder every time his hips crashed into me. I panted and moaned.
His cock.
His scent.
His breath in my hair.
His hands on my body.
I would be forever changed.
He left pieces of himself in his wake, as if whatever it was that made him him was combining with whatever it was that made me me.
Or maybe the sex was so good I was losing my mind.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Joe
At some point during the night, Kennedy claimed half the bed and all the pillows, stretching out like a queen staking claim on a new territory. Thanks to her invasion, I found myself awake at five o’clock in the morning. Her chest rose and fell and her sex kitten hair fanned out around her in a copper cloud.
I stared like a peasant in the presence of royalty. Rapt. Overcome. Amazed that someone like her existed in the same world I did. Knowing she had to work, I slipped out of bed, pulled on my jeans, and ambled into the kitchenette to start a pot of coffee.
Last night, I called Kennedy’s hair my new obsession.
What a fool I’d been to think things would stop there.
Her body, the sounds she made when I was inside her, the way she looked at me when she came…
After just one hit, I was an addict. I’d never recover.
As the aroma of coffee tickled my sleep-fogged brain, an idea popped into existence. What Kennedy needed after a night of sexing was a delicious breakfast to fuel her body for work, so she’d be ready for more sexing when she got home. I congratulated myself on a fucking solid plan and got to work.
Carefully, quietly, I pulled out a pan and tossed in some bacon, sipping on coffee as it sizzled away. The scent brought up a sliver of a memory from when I was five, maybe six. My foster mom at the time was wonderful. A beautiful woman whose caring heart had room for the entire world. She cooked three meals a day for me. Supported me as I worked through the baggage left by my bio-mom. My poor, unsuspecting soul let down its guard, deemed her Perfect Mom, and then boom. She and her husband decided they didn’t have the energy to be the kind of parents they wanted to be. No adoption for me. Back into the system I went.
I drowned those bittersweet memories with a searing swig of coffee and pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge. The rustle of skin on sheets sounded behind me and I straightened to find